


Nature of the Beast

by Gia279



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Amnesia, BAMF!Stiles, F/M, Injured Stiles, M/M, Magical stiles, No Hale Fire, Slow Build Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, actual wolves, all sorts of things, alpha pack, and pain, full wolf shift, like you'll hate me it's so slow I'M SORRY, lots of blood, magick!Stiles au, slowwww build, sorry - Freeform, super slow, to the sterek, witches and vampires and werewolves oh my!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2015-10-28
Packaged: 2018-04-17 06:43:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 56,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4656660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gia279/pseuds/Gia279
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He still couldn't believe his name was Stiles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I know I have a bad habit of starting chaptered fics and not finishing them (I'm still working on Seven Devils, I just walked myself into a corner and am trying to get out of it) but this one I have written out 8 chapters ahead! Go me!  
> [rebekahdarian](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rebekahdarian) helped me edit this, but she mostly tells me how it flows, so any grammatical errors are mine!

Cool drops fell on his face, a few at first, then a downpour, so much that he began to choke. He gasped and opened his eyes, pain seeping to his attention, one aching throb after another. 

His face felt sticky and wet. He was in some sort of vehicle, a broken, bent metal box. The seatbelt was cutting into his throat. To his left was a busted window and boggy ground, and to his right was a busted window and the sky. It was bruise-like and stormy.

He blinked rain and blood out of his eyes and fumbled for a seatbelt buckle.

His fingers hurt, but his left wrist hurt even more. Neither could compare to his splitting headache.

He fell against the driver door when his seatbelt released. He groaned, feeling mud slid under his face, glass grinding into his cheek. His legs felt numb and shaky, the ankle of his right twisting and folding like paper when he tried to stand. Pain shot up and down his thigh.

Okay. Trying to climb through the passenger side was useless. He looked at the windshield. It was hanging partially off anyway, so he braced himself against the seat and kicked with his good leg until enough had come off that he could fit through.

His shoes sank into the ground when he was free of the car. He looked at it, a wrecked, blue Jeep, and felt nothing. 

His heart tripped in his chest with the realization that he didn’t recognize the car he’d probably been driving, but he pushed it aside. He had to find help. He was bleeding, and had been bleeding for who knew _how_ long. He could barely walk, but it was better than just waiting to get eaten by something.

The thought made his lips quirk, which hurt. He started walking, following the decline. There was no way he could make it up the steep hill, even if he’d come from that way.

Twenty minutes in and he was sweaty and shaky with pain. He’d had to stop to puke already, which was probably a bad sign. He found a large stick to lean his weight on and kept walking.

Fifteen minutes later, he clunked his way onto pavement and nearly wept. 

He lurched into the middle of the two lane road, clutching his stick and gritting his sore jaw. He wasn’t moving until someone stopped. 

Of course, that only worked if anyone actually used this road. 

He stood there while thunder snarled above him and rain beat against his head. He wanted to sleep. He considered just curling up between two of the white lines and just closing his eyes. He was sagging close to the ground when a charcoal gray SUV came into sight.

“Hey!” His voice was a low rasp. He waved his arms instead, nearly toppling over. “Help! Help me,” he pleaded, tears springing to his eyes. His vision wavered as he began to tremble.

What if they didn’t stop? Just skirted around him and kept on their way? It was a moot worry, as the SUV was already stopping. 

Two figures jumped out of the back seat.

“Oh my god!” The smaller figure shouted, “Oh my god, Dad! Help us!” 

The driver got out, a huge shadow in the rain.

His knees shook. He was afraid and lost and in so much pain.

“Hey, are you okay? Were you attacked?”

He looked at the speaker, a thin girl with a high ponytail and direct, dark eyes. “I don’t know,” he said quietly.

“What’s your name?” she demanded.

“I—I’m not—I’m not sure.” 

Her eyes flickered down, then her hand flashed out like a snake striking. She pulled something from his shirt. “‘Hi, my name is Stiles’?” she read, lips pursed.

The name—if it was a name—meant nothing to him. No flicker of recognition, no twinge. Nothing.

“Cora, come on,” a boy said, appearing at her side. “Dad put down the backseats so we can put him in the cargo area.”

“Can you walk?” 

He started to nod—he’d made it this far—but the motion made him dizzy. His knees gave out, but he didn’t hit the ground. The large man—the boy and girl’s father—had caught him.

“He’s covered in blood. We might not have time for a hospital run. Darrel, call Dr. Deaton, have him meet us at the farm. Cora, sit in front.” 

His head lulled against the man’s bicep, eyes flagging.

“Hey, kiddo, don’t pass out. You could have a concussion.”

“ _Does_ have a concussion!” the girl called out. “He can’t remember his name!”

“Is that true?” the man demanded, voice sharpening. He set him gently in the back of the SUV.

“Yes.”

The man began to swear. “Lay still. Darrel’s going to keep you awake. Don’t fall asleep.” He started to close the door.

“Wait!” he blurted, leaning out to puke.

More swearing, and a large hand rubbing his back. “You good?”

He nodded, wiping a shaking hand across his mouth. “Yes,” he rasped. 

“Darrel, get him a bottle of water.”

The drive was short but horrible. He ached everywhere, and shook the entire ride, despite the blasting heaters. He just wanted to sleep.

He forgot the boy’s name, but he spoke to him the whole time, obviously trying to keep him awake. They were the Hales, and he was the youngest—except for his baby cousin, of course. He was a junior in high school and played something that he forgot already.

“Okay. Cora, you go open the closest guest room. Darrel, get Deaton ready. Stiles?”

He didn’t react—had already forgotten that that was probably his name.

Mr. …Mr. Hale bent closer to him. “Stiles, I’m going to pick you up now.”

He nodded, shuffling toward the edge of the cargo area to help.

Mr. Hale scooped him up easily enough, and kept him fairly steady as they walked.

“What the hell…” A woman’s voice began, so loud and demanding that he jerked.

“Laura, is Deaton-?”

“He’s in the guest room. That way.”

 _Stiles_ lost the thread of whatever was happening around him. He was next aware of cool fingers brushing hair off his head. 

“Hello. You’re back with us, finally. Can you tell me your name?” the man above him asked mildly.

“I…don’t remember.” He looked around for the girl, but the man gently turned his face back to him.

“Cora showed me the nametag you were wearing. Your name is Stiles. Does that ring any bells?”

“No.” He flinched when the man’s finger brushed over a cut.

“You cracked your head a couple times,” the man said gently. “My name is Dr. Alan Deaton. I don’t have the means to X-Ray you here, but I can get the bleeding in most of your wounds stopped before we go to the hospital.”

“You’re a doctor…” he echoed. 

“A vet, actually.” Dr. Deaton’s eyes crinkled. “I have a bit of experience with humans. The Hales are a rowdy bunch.” He reached out of sight and came back with some scissors. “I’m going to cut your shirt now. I need to look at your chest, listen to your lungs.” He began cutting before…Stiles…could answer.

Dr. Deaton asked gentle, probing questions while he looked over Stiles’s chest. There was a large bruise from the seatbelt across his chest, among other, smaller gashes and bruises.

Once it was determined he wouldn’t bleed out during the trip, Dr. Deaton and Mr. Hale loaded Stiles into the SUV—again—and went to the hospital. The receptionist greeted both men by name, then got a look at him and went pale and wide eyed.

He was X-Rayed and stitched up. His left wrist was broken, as were three fingers on his right hand. He had a “doozy” of a concussion. His right femur was fractured, as was his right ankle. He was fitted with an enormous black boot thing and told he would need to use a wheelchair to get around for the time being.

He had to get stitches on his forehead, his upper left arm, and his left thigh. 

“Amnesia isn’t uncommon with a concussion,” the doctor was telling Mr. Hale and the vet. She sounded uncertain. “It’s strange that he’s forgotten everything personal, but it’s not _entirely_ unheard of.” 

The nurse—who had said her name twice already, but he couldn’t remember it—was finishing the stitches on his left arm. “Be careful with all this. Leave the bandage on for the first day at home, then wash it gently with soap and water twice a day.” She went on to explain about when he should call a doctor if this happened or that changed. 

He nodded. He was too tired to focus too closely on her words. He caught _redness_ , _swelling,_ and _pus_ , which was probably enough. 

“Of course, he’s coming back with me. I can’t very well just abandon him like this,” Mr. Hale said sharply.

“We want to keep him overnight for observation,” the doctor said firmly. “That’s a nasty concussion. You’re welcome to stay.”

“Then I will. Let me call Laura and let them know.”

The doctor walked back to his bed. She smiled tiredly. “You’re certainly looking better. Did you hear that?”

“Yes,” he muttered.

“Good. We just want to keep you overnight to keep an eye on you. Mr. Hale is going to stay.”

“I don’t have money,” he realized. “I can’t pay for this. I don’t…I don’t know my last name, or if I have insurance or-” his voice was getting higher pitched as he went, his throat constricting until his breath was a high whistle. His vision went fuzzy as the doctor grabbed the back of his neck.

Then everything went black again.

He was woken a couple hours later by a nurse asking him questions, things like his full name (Stiles…?), the date (July…?), where he was (the hospital), and other things that irritated him.

Mr. Hale was in a recliner close this bed, talking into his phone. “No, Laura. We looked for a wallet or a cell phone. He didn’t have either. He’s got a nasty rectangular bruise on his leg. Yeah, we figured that, too.” 

Stiles tried to turn to look at Mr. Hale—who was he talking to?—but the nurse tapped his cheek lightly, distracting him.

After he’d answered the _rest_ of her questions, she let him sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since it's technically "next week" I decided to post this...now. I'm so impatient. I'm a glutton. Enjoy! (I may up the posting to twice a week if I get to chapter twelve in the handwritten version soon!) :D

“If you aren’t comfortable, we have another guest room down the hall,” Mr. Hale said.

They were back at the Hale’s estate. He hadn’t noticed before, but it was intimidatingly big. He felt small even in the guest room. 

Mr. Hale had paid for his hospital expenses and insisted he stay with them until he got his memory back, at least.

Dr. Monroe said his brain seemed okay aside from the concussion. Trauma or stress had likely caused his memory loss, and time would bring it back.

He…Stiles felt acute embarrassment over them having paid for him, but no one—not even the hospital staff—had seemed surprised. Stiles thought that meant the Hale’s weren’t strangers to helping people out.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

Mr. Hale frowned. “Here’s the pain medication Dr. Monroe sent home with you.” He pulled the bottle out of his pocket and set it on the night stand.

“Where are we?” Stiles blurted. “Like—what state?” 

“We’re in Louisiana. I doubt you’re from around here. The accent,” he added with a smile. “Nobody from Sunset enunciates like that.” 

“Oh.” He’d noticed the accents, the slow r’s and dropped g’s. He assumed it sounded strange because _everything_ sounded strange to him.

“Cora and Darrel made breakfast, if you’re up for it.”

“Okay.”

Mr. Hale smiled. “Great! Let’s go, then.” He put one hand on Stiles’s shoulder, the other on the wheelchair. 

The dining room, like the rest of the house, was large. Mr. Hale wheeled Stiles up to the long, cherry wood table that was laden with dishes.

“They’ve been at it for a few hours. We weren’t sure what you liked.” 

Stiles turned his head to look up at Mr. Hale. “I’m not sure, either,” he said dryly.

Mr. Hale snorted, then cleared his throat. “Sorry, it’s not—it’s very serious,” he said awkwardly.

Stiles laughed. “Yeah, it is.” His pain had faded, though he couldn’t remember taking his meds. 

The doctor had said his short term memory would improve the more he healed. 

“This is the last of it. Laura said we have to go shopping later to replenish the…entire kitchen.” Cora came out with a couple of trays in hand. “Darrel’s volunteer hours can be filled by this. For his, uh, cooking class.” She shrugged. “Hey, Stiles. Just load up a…wow. I’ll get Darrel to make you a plate.” 

“Cora, you make him a plate. I’m going to get Laura and Darrel from the kitchen. We’ll eat breakfast together.”

Cora buzzed around the table, dumping things onto a plate that had to be bigger than her head. 

“Man, you look terrible. I mean, you’re kinda cute, you’re not like a lake beast. I meant you’re all bruised up. How many stitches in your head?” she asked, setting the plate in front of him.

“Uh, twenty,” he said. He lifted a hand to touch the gash on his forehead.

Cora winced. “Ouch. Nice. Oh, we got orange juice, milk, or water to drink.” 

“Any is fine, I guess.” None sounded particularly pleasing, not that he’d know if he had a preference. He knew what they’d taste like, could practically feel the citric acid in his jaw, the milk on his tongue. 

She frowned, but brought him a cup of orange juice. “Can you use the fork?” she asked, sitting in the chair next to him. She piled her own plate high with sausage and bacon.

“Um, yeah.” He wiggled the fingers of his left hand experimentally. Nothing was really hurting anymore. “Yes. Thank you,” he said sincerely. He picked up the fork with caution. 

Darrel and Mr. Hale came into the dining room together. Darrel was flushed and messy from cooking, dark hair mussed. A woman followed them. 

“Hello, Stiles,” she said, stopping by his chair. “How’re you feeling?” 

“Better than last night.” He smiled awkwardly at her and she laughed, touching his arm lightly.

“Would be hard to be worse, I bet. I’m Laura.” She moved to a seat near the head of the table, but didn’t sit down. She cocked her head.

“I’ll get it,” Mr. Hale said. “You kids eat.” He patted Stiles’s shoulder again as he left.

Darrel and Cora provided most of the conversation. Stiles wasn’t required to do more than chew his food, which was good, considering that took most of his concentration. As soon as the cheesy eggs touched his tongue, he knew he liked them. 

Once he tasted the grape jelly, he was horrified and disgusted by it. He tried to be subtle about it, and he was sure that his face was bruised up enough that his expressions were concealed, anyway. 

“Dean’s home!” Cora shouted, jumping up.

She and Darrel bolted from the room, tripping each other up in their rush.

Laura rolled her eyes. “Dean’s one of my little brothers. He, my mom, and the other brother, Derek, were on a road trip. Not that you’d know it from those two. You’d think they were at war.” 

Stiles quirked a smile at her.

“You don’t have to eat the toast. They won’t notice if you just set it on an empty plate.” She winked.

Dean Hale looked like Laura, dark haired and gorgeous. He grinned and plucked Laura out of her chair, hugging her tightly.

“Hey, man,” he said once he’d set her down. She smacked his head. “I’m Dean.”

“Nice to meet you.” He flushed when Dean paused, waiting for a name in return. “Apparently, I’m Stiles.” He grinned weakly.

“Jerk,” Laura muttered, elbowing her brother.

Dean winced. “Oh, yeah. Speaking of horrible first impressions, Mom and Derek are going to be a few extra days.”

Laura went tense, then visibly forced herself to relax. Her eyes flickered over to Stiles. “Car trouble?” she asked Dean in a casual voice.

“Little bit.” Dean was reaching for a plate of pancakes. “Mostly, it was those asshole faer-” He _oomph_ -ed when Laura smacked his stomach.

“No swearing at the table,” she said sweetly.

Stiles continued to pick his way through his plate. 

After breakfast, Stiles started to feel his wounds again. He tried to ignore it, but the collective Hale clan seemed to sense it—or maybe he wasn’t very subtle—because Laura asked gently if he’d like to go lay down while they cleaned up.

“I’m okay,” he lied, but Darrel had already stood up.

“Are you sure?” he asked. He leaned down and whispered, “It’ll get me out of clean up duty, dude.”

Stiles flinched. “Okay, sure. Yeah.” 

The Hales all seemed to have a pathological _need_ to touch everyone around them. Darrel brushed his hand against Stiles’s forearm before wheeling him out of the dining room. He chattered the whole way back to Stiles’s borrowed room. 

“Do you need help getting into bed?” Darrel asked seriously. 

Stiles stifled the urge to laugh. “No, I’m good. Thank you.” Darrel was thin and young, with a sort of wiry build. Stiles was probably far too heavy. 

“I can help, really. It’s no problem. I’m stronger than I look.”

“I’m okay.” He wobbled up off the chair to prove it. He couldn’t walk far, to be sure, but he could most definitely get in the bed. “Thanks,” he said exhaustedly. He flopped back on the pillows, cringing at the head rush. 

Darrel reached out and touched his forehead, making him flinch. “Sorry. Dad said to check for a fever.”

Stiles could barely understand him. His pain was slipping away, giving him a strange rocking sensation. _Must be the pain meds,_ he thought while he drifted off.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapters are going to get longer from here, I swear! I have no self-restraint. OTL Tell me what you think! :D

**Part 1**  
“He does look terrible,” Peter said in delight. “And he _reeks_ of magick. Do you think that’s what caused the amnesia?”

Darren backed out of the guest room, dragging Peter with him. “Deaton does. He put a bind on his magick—doesn’t want him hurting himself because he doesn’t remember his training.”

“The binding will come off eventually,” Peter pointed out. “Then what?”

Darren nodded. “He’s going to be fine.”

Peter snorted, shaking his head. “He can’t even move by himself. Have you told Talia?”

“No. I couldn’t get her cell or Derek’s. Dean said they were on their way home.”

“You’re just going to spring a broken witch on her when she gets back from dealing with the faeries?”

“Yes. Yes, I am.” Darren ran his hands over his face. 

“Well, then, I’ll be staying in the main house until she gets back. I can’t wait to see her reaction,” he said cheerily. 

Darren rolled his eyes. “Go send Dean down here, please.” 

**Part 2**  
When he came to, it took a couple minutes to remember waking in the car—the Jeep—walking, Mr. Hale, hospital, back to the Hale house. A couple more to snatch his name out of the confused gelatin of his thoughts. He blinked groggily, struggling to figure out what’d woken him.

“Hey, man. It’s dinner time. You want something?” the man asked, leaning around the open door.

Stiles frowned. “What?” _Name, name. Darrel? Cora?_ “You’re…Dean?”

He smiled. “Hey, yeah. My dad said the doc thinks your short term memory will improve pretty fast.” He stepped further into the room, flipping on the light.

Stiles flinched, eyes watering at the immediate stabbing pain.

“Sorry,” Dean said quickly, dropping a hand on Stiles’s forearm.

The pain from his head faded. 

“Anyway, you hungry?” Dean asked. “Feel up to eating with us?”

“Sure. Yeah.” Stiles struggled to a sitting position. He didn’t hurt, exactly, but his body felt stiff, as if he’d been tensed up in his sleep.

“Here, let me help you.” 

“I can get up,” he said through his teeth. He shuffled to the edge of the bed, panting. He focused on the pile of clothes sitting on the reading chair across the room, trying to catch his breath. There were tags on the clothes. His head was swimming.

Dean held a hand out tentatively, and Stiles, resigned, put his right hand in it and allowed himself to be hauled up. At least Dean was bulkier than Darrel. 

“Wait,” he yelped before Dean could lower him to the wheelchair. “I have to pee,” he blurted.

“Oh, okay. Come on, then.” Dean carefully brought his arm up over his shoulder and helped him limp to the bathroom. 

Since the hospital had had to cut his jeans off to stitch up one leg and X-Ray the other, he was wearing elastic-waist scrubs, which was good. 

He assured Dean he could handle the rest on his own and shut the bathroom door.

Once he’d finished, he washed his hands and looked up at the mirror. His left eye was blacked but not overly swollen anymore. This was his first view of himself head-on. 

He had greasy brown hair—might’ve been greasy because it hadn’t been washed in a couple days—bright brown eyes, and a pert nose all mixed together under discolored skin, freckles, and moles. A bruise was blooming around the stitches on his forehead, and on his jaw. There was a split in his lip that seemed to be healing fast enough.

His neck was raw and discolored from his seatbelt, but he was more focused on his face.

He stared, eyes roving over the curve of his jaw and cheeks to his hairline, his heart steadily picking up speed. It was, apparently, one thing not to recognize his own name or where he was or where he’d come from, and a whole different beast not to recognize his own face.

Nothing looked remotely familiar about his face. He felt nothing but panic looking at his own reflection.

“Stiles? You okay?” Dean’s voice came through the door, jolting Stiles enough that his breath caught in his throat.

He sucked in a trembling breath. “I-I’m okay. I’m coming.”

Dean frowned at him when he came out. “You alright? You’re sweating.” He lifted his hand. “If you’re in pain-”

“No, I’m okay.”

Dean’s brown eyes narrowed. “Really?”

Stiles sighed. “I saw my reflection for the first time,” he muttered. “It freaked me out.” 

“Hell yeah, I bet!” His face softened. “Hey, if you want to just sit in here, I can bring you some food.”

“No, I’d rather have company.” He was exhausted already, and he’d only shuffled from the bathroom to the wheelchair. He flopped into it and took a second to catch his breath.

“If you’re sure…c’mon then.” Dean helpfully wheeled him to the dining room.

Cora and Darrel grinned at him, Laura asked how he’d slept, and Mr. Hale introduced his brother-in-law, Peter Hale.

Peter seemed to notice the confusion on his face and smirked. “Hales,” he said haughtily, “don’t change their names.”

 

The next day, Stiles was in the kitchen with Cora making lunch, since Darrel and Peter had made breakfast, and Laura and Dean were on dinner detail, when three people burst in through the backdoor. They were chattering loudly and jostling each other.

“We’re thirsty, Cora,” a tall man with sweaty, curly hair whined. “Peter locked up his house and we wanted to see Dean since he just got back.” 

Cora rolled her eyes. “He’s outside with Darrel.” She looked toward Stiles. “This is Isaac, and the two in the pantry are Erica and Boyd. Guys, this is Stiles.”

Isaac turned and winced when he saw Stiles. “Hey!” he said with a smile as if to hide the cringe. “Cora told me what happened. How’re you doing?”

Stiles resigned himself to answering this or a question like this every hour or so. He supposed it happened when you looked like you’d been run over by a truck.

Isaac, Boyd, and Erica lived with the Hales, apparently, basically adopted into the family. Isaac’s father worked for them when he was young, and when he died, they took Isaac in. Erica had moved in after she turned eighteen, and Boyd’s family owned a tobacco farm on the other end of town, but after befriending Derek Hale, he decided to move to the Hale sugarcane farm and begin work there. 

“Sugar?” Stiles blurted. “You guys grow _sugar?_ ”

“Sugarcane,” Cora corrected. She shrugged and pushed a plate across the counter toward him.

When he’d come into the kitchen, Peter Hale had unceremoniously lifted him into one of the tall chairs at the kitchen island like he weighed nothing. 

“Sugarcane,” Stiles repeated, picking at the sandwich. “What’s that like? Do you help with the actual farming? How much do you grow?”

Cora lifted her brows. “We all had to learn how to do it, it’s tradition, but Dean and Peter are the only ones who’re really into the field work. Mom and Laura are on the business end.”

“Derek’s trying to figure out where he goes,” Isaac put in helpfully. “He’s not good with people, he gets irritated with them. He’s pretty good at fixing things though. He and Darren usually make sure all the equipment and cars work properly.”

It took Stiles a minute to realize that Darren was Mr. Hale.

“We help out Peter and Dean in the fields. Boyd is pretty much in charge, though, since he knows the most.” The girl, Erica, seemed smug about that. “He’s good with the plants, too.” 

Boyd rolled his eyes and leaned against the counter. “We’re going to eat lunch in here.”

“Then two of you better start helping me,” Cora said, brandishing her spatula.

They interacted like family. Isaac and Cora bickered while pulling food out of the fridge. Boyd bumped up against Cora’s side while reaching for the plates, and Erica raked her nails through Isaac’s hair while she got out glasses for water.

Stiles picked his sandwich up and balanced it on his finger brace to take bites.

He was content, he wasn’t in pain, and the friendly noise of a full kitchen was for some reason comfortable to him.

He looked up when Cora asked a question, except he didn’t see Cora, but a dark haired girl with a flash of dimples as she smiled inquisitively, hand lifting toward him.

Stiles yelped and jerked away, losing his balance and toppling off the chair. He barely felt himself land through the splitting agony in his head. 

Hands turned him over and helped him sit up. Another hand cupped the back of his neck. Pain ebbed with his consciousness, until someone tapped his cheek, sharp little smacks that woke him up.

“Stiles, what happened?” Cora asked, kneeling in front of him. 

Boyd let go of his neck, but as soon as he did, the pain returned full force. Stiles jerked forward, curling in on himself.

Cora muttered something, and Boyd gripped Stiles’s neck again. 

“Your dad is here,” Erica said, stepping out of the way.

Stiles blinked dazedly at Mr. Hale.

“You okay? What happened before you fell?” he asked gently.

“Cora…I looked at Cora but she wasn’t Cora. She was someone else, and then my head just… _hurt_.” He was embarrassed to realize his lashes were wet and clumped together with tears.

“Okay, Boyd,” Mr. Hale nodded over Stiles’s head.

Boyd carefully removed his hand finger by finger.

The pain didn’t return, and Stiles went lax with relief.

“What—how did you do that?”

“Pressure point,” Boyd said easily. “Do you need help, Darren?”

Mr. Hale shook his head. “Go have your lunch. I’m going to call Deaton, ask for advice. Stiles, you might need to go back to bed.” He looked puzzled and concerned as he gently lifted Stiles to his wheelchair. 

Exhaustion had already deadened Stiles’s limbs, and they hadn’t even gotten to his guest room before he fell to sleep. 

He dreamt of the dark-haired girl, that same moment of her turning to smile at him, until she bled into Cora and he forgot what she looked like at all.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not speak French. I used google translate. Feel free to correct me if it's wrong. :D

Talia and Derek Hale returned five days later. Stiles had been integrated into the Hale family daily life so smoothly that he’d forgotten there were more Hales to meet.

Cora and Darrel were keeping Stiles company while Deaton removed the stitches from his forehead and arm. 

Talia Hale stepped into the living room and smiled sharply. “Cora, Darrel. Who’s this?”

“Our friend, Stiles. We found him,” Cora said gleefully. 

Deaton’s lips twitched, but he remained focused on Stiles’s head. 

The fact that Mrs. Hale didn’t seem shocked or scornful of her child claiming to have just found a friend was probably telling. 

“Did you find him in this state, or have you made him a chew toy?”

Darrel laughed, his voice weird and high pitched. “We found him standing in the road, and Dad and Deaton took him to the hospital.”

“I see. What’s your name?”

“Uh, Stiles.” He still couldn’t quite believe that his name was _Stiles_.

She lifted her brows. “‘Uh, Stiles’?” she repeated. “And the rest of it?”

“We don’t know,” Cora piped up. “He has amnesia. Didn’t you talk to Dad at _all?_ ”

Mrs. Hale looked irritated. “I haven’t had time,” she said curtly. “Darrel, go get your father and Laura, meet me in my study.” She smiled at Stiles. “I hope you’re feeling alright, and you’re welcome for as long as you need.” 

“Do I have to go, too?” Cora asked.

“Yes. Find Peter and the rest on your way.” 

Cora sighed, trudging out of the room.

Deaton continued carefully removing stitches. “How’s the leg?” he asked as he moved on to Stiles’s arm.

“Better,” he replied.

Because all of the Hales possessed this weird ability to move very quickly and quietly, Cora had sneaked up on Stiles on Wednesday, making him jump so badly he’d ripped the stitches in his leg. Mr. Hale had yelled at Cora, and Dr. Deaton had come to repair the damage. 

“Alan, when you’re finished…” Mrs. Hale began.

“Of course,” he said easily, tilting Stiles’s arm until he could see the scar better.

Dr. Deaton checked his casts and braces, asked him questions that Stiles guessed were to check his short-term memory, and checked all of his bruises. 

“Do you need anything else?” he asked as he stood and began cleaning up. 

“No, I’m good. I’ll just…wait here until Cora and Darrel are done.” 

“Alright. Make sure to get a nap in, if you start feeling tired. Don’t try to tough it out.”

“I won’t. Thank you.” 

Stiles let his head fall back against his wheelchair, closing his eyes when Deaton left the room. 

As he started to drift off, he heard a man laughing. 

“ _Bro, you’re falling asleep! I told you this movie sucks! Let’s watch the_ Boxtrolls _again.”_

He snorted and started to answer.

“Who the hell are you?”

Stiles jerked and banged his cast off the arm of his wheelchair. The man in the doorway looked confused and angry, wearing ripped jeans and a black t-shirt.

“Uh,” Stiles managed, trying to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “I’m…”

“Stiles, you want lunch?” Dean asked, coming into the room from the sliding glass porch door. “Hey, Derek! This is Stiles.”

Derek’s face screwed up. “ _Stiles?_ ” he repeated.

Dean rolled his eyes.

Side-by-side, they looked like twins, though Cora had told Stiles that Dean was three years older than Derek. Dean was wiry and lean, though, while Derek was broad and muscular. Their coloring was the same as Talia and Laura’s, dark hair and sepia skin that the sun obviously worshipped. Cora, Darrel, and Mr. Hale were fair in every way, but Cora had Laura and Talia’s dark brown eyes, while Dean and Derek seemed to have Mr. Hale’s hazel.

“His name is Stiles, as far as we know,” Dean said. He gave Derek a brief explanation of what had happened, then asked Stiles if he wanted a sandwich or something.

“Um, sure. Thank you.”

Dean grinned and left him and Derek staring at each other. At some point Derek cocked his head like he was listening to something and grunted. 

“You don’t remember anything?” Derek asked awkwardly.

Stiles shook his head. He was comfortable with the other Hales—at the moment, they were the only people he knew—but Talia and Derek were strangers to him, even more so than everyone else, so he was nervous and tongue-tied. 

It didn’t help that Derek’s resting face seemed to be mildly murderous, and that he looked like he could rip Stiles’s face off.

After another few agonizingly awkward moments, Derek seemed to shake himself and walked over to the couch, turning the TV on as he went.

“How long until your cast comes off?” he grunted, as if small talk physically pained him.

“Five or six weeks,” Stiles said tersely. He wasn’t going to _force_ Derek to speak to him. There were plenty of other Hales who were happy to talk to him. 

Stiles put his head back against his chair and shut his eyes, but the waves of tension coming from the couch made drifting off impossible. 

“Here, Stiles. Cora and Darrel are almost done talking to Mom,” Dean said cheerfully. He set a plate in Stiles’s lap and flopped on the couch beside Derek, legs nearly in his lap. “Man, the Bears are kicking ass,” Dean said, frowning at the TV.

Stiles started on his sandwich. He wasn’t interested in football. Halfway through his lunch, though, Dean and Derek started talking.

For a moment, Stiles’s heart hammered in panic, thinking something was wrong with his head again, but he calmed down when he realized they were just speaking another language. French, it sounded like.

“ _Tu ne vas pas lui dire?_ ” Derek muttered. 

“ _Non. Papa et Deaton pensent qu'il serait mieux qu'il s'en souvient lui même._.” Dean shrugged. 

Stiles heard Deaton’s name and frowned, but couldn’t guess what they were talking about.

“ _Qu'est-ce qu'on fait si il se blesse?_ ” Derek’s voice was impatient, and he glowered at Stiles when he noticed him listening.

Stiles looked back at his sandwich.

“ _On a restreint sa magie!_ ” Dean said sharply. “ _On n'est pas stupide!_ ” He took a breath and turned his head to smile at Stiles. “We’re being rude. Deaton has found a kitten, and Derek wants to keep it, but I think we should put up flyers.” 

Derek’s scowl deepened, but, if Stiles wasn’t mistaken, his ears also turned bright pink. 

“Oh.” Stiles wasn’t sure what to say. “It probably isn’t _missing_. When people get kittens, they keep them really close when they’re small, you know? Probably a stray had the kitten, or an outdoor cat and the owners didn’t know or care.” He paused to think. “Feral cats have an average of 1.4 litters per year, with an average 3.5 live births in each litter. That equals 4.9 kittens per year, per female feral cat. That means a pair of breeding cats and their offspring can produce 420,000 kittens over a seven-year period. It’s probably a stray.” He started to go on, except the dumbfounded looks on their faces stopped him.

They stared at him, and he flushed until his face burned.

He’d done that a couple times, but Cora seemed to take it in stride that he sometimes just spouted off random facts.

“See?” Derek said at last, with the air of someone trying to perform a social rescue. “The kitten isn’t lost. No flyers needed.” 

Dean made a face at him and shrugged. “Okay, whatever.”

Stiles caught Derek’s eye and smiled. 

Cora and Darrel reemerged some time later, with Isaac, Boyd, and Erica trailing behind them. Dean changed the channel to some movie about spies with lots of explosions. The newcomers piled on top of Derek until only his eyes and tufts of black hair were visible. 

At some point in the movie, an SUV went rolling down the side of the hill. Stiles watched with a distant sort of fascination. His car had probably done that. All those sick crunching noises, the dents and shattering glass. The character got tossed around like a ragdoll, glass sparkling through the air. Blood spattered his face and the upholstery. His head cracked against the steering wheel.

Stiles could empathize whole heartedly when the character blinked around the broken shell of a car with confusion and pain in his eyes.

For some reason, he couldn’t really catch his breath, but he didn’t look away from the screen, just watched as the character painstakingly pulled himself out of the car. He didn’t get tangled in his seatbelt like Stiles had, and his door wasn’t pinned.

Stiles’s horrified trance was broken the minute the guy started walking, barely limping and only holding a hand to his ribs. 

Stiles had had to stop every few feet and practically ended up crawling to the road. This was nothing like his accident.

“Stiles?” Cora asked, touching his shoulder. “You okay?”

“Oh, yeah. I’m fine. Good. I’m just thinking,” he chuckled weakly. “This guy got into a wreck like me, huh?”

Cora, Darrel, and Dean exchanged worried looks.

“Seriously, I’m okay. I just wondered if it looked like that.” He flushed when his voice squeaked at the end.

“Let’s watch something else,” Boyd said calmly. 

Dean changed the channel and they settled in to watch some family movie.

They only shifted around to make room for Mr. and Mrs. Hale and Peter when they came in. Derek and his group of tangled limbs slid from the couch to the floor to save space. 

Two weeks after the accident, Stiles’s ankle and fingers were healed. Dr. Monroe decided he just healed faster than normal and gave him crutches to go back on. She warned him to continue taking it easy. He was just thrilled to have more mobility.

Talia and Darren celebrated by ordering a ton of pizza. 

They ate on the back deck, talking over each other and arguing cheerfully over toppings.

Stiles wasn’t able to give to the conversations—they included too many inside jokes and shared memories. He was okay just listening and eating his pizza, trying a piece of each.

“Do you really think _that’s_ a reason?” Cora burst out. “What if he killed someone? I don’t care how well-meaning he was!” 

Darrel and Cora were arguing about superheroes to his left, Laura and Talia were talking business across from him, and Peter and Boyd were discussing the fields to their right. Dean was talking to Erica about a football game, and Isaac and Derek were being as quiet as Stiles.

After the pizzas had been devoured, no one was in a rush to get inside. Boyd and Erica lounged in the grass together while Isaac stretched out on his back on the deck near Cora’s feet.

Dean and Laura started wrestling, but Talia made them move it to the yard when they accidentally kicked Stiles’s crutch at Peter’s head. 

“Here, do you need help?” Derek asked when Stiles got up.

“Not anymore,” he said smugly, and Cora laughed. His newfound freedom was only hours old, little though it was, and was still a novelty to him. He could get up and go to the bathroom _without asking anyone for help_. 

He was grinning into the mirror when he made it to the bathroom down the hall from the kitchen. 

He was still a little bruised and truthfully the walk to the bathroom had exhausted him, but he _could_ do it, which was the point.

He wished his brain was healing as fast as his body. He couldn’t remember himself or anyone he’d known. He rarely dreamed of anything that wasn’t the Hales or his crash—maybe it was the movie crash—but when he did, he woke up in agony and with nothing more than a feeling from the dream.

“Stiles? You okay?”

It sounded like Dean or Darrel—Derek certainly never sought Stiles out on his own.

“Yeah, just washing my hands.” When he came out, Darrel was waiting for him in the hall, leaning down to tie his shoe. 

He grinned up at Stiles. “Derek was _worried_ ,” he sang. “He said you seemed _shaky_ on the crutches.”

Stiles snorted. “Yeah? Well, I _am_ learning how to use them. But I’m not completely useless.” He stumped forward a few feet to prove it.

“I don’t think he meant-” Darrel began awkwardly, but Stiles cut him off. 

“Helpless, useless, same thing. Come on.” Stiles lurched his way toward the kitchen. 

Darrel let out a snort and followed after a moment. “I have to go back to school on Monday, and Cora’s got classes, too,” he said carefully. “So you’ll be stuck _all day_ with Laura, Dean, and Derek.” 

“What about Isaac, Erica, and Boyd?” Stiles asked, frowning. He was trying to open the door but kept losing his balance or his grip on his crutch. 

“Isaac’s taking classes with Cora, Boyd graduated already, and Erica is doing online courses.” Darrel smiled. “You’ll also have Peter and my parents for company.”

Stiles sighed, frustrated, and stepped back to let him open the door. “What about your cousin? You said you had a cousin.”

“Who, Malia? Yeah, but she’s eleven, and she lives with her mom’s pack. She visits on holidays,” he added thoughtfully, stepping out onto the deck.

Stiles frowned after him. _Her mom’s pack?_ he wondered.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sterek starts moving a little more in this chapter! :D Tell me what you think!

Once most of the household was back at school or work, Stiles learned far too quickly that he hated to be alone, doing nothing. He made two laps from the kitchen to the living room to his room before he was sweaty and exhausted.

Talia took pity on him and brought him into her study, which was apparently connected to a huge family library. “There’s all sorts of genres in there. See if you can find something to enjoy.” She pointed toward a desk. “Derek can help you if you need anything, just ask.” 

Derek was behind a pile of books, a pile of papers spread in front of him, pen firmly clutched in his fingers. 

“Is he _reading?_ It’s too dark to be reading in here,” Stiles blurted, and for a second, he could have sworn Derek’s eyes were glowing yellow.

Talia turned on the light and _obviously_ Derek’s eyes weren’t glowing. “What have I told you about turning the lights on once the sun stops coming in?” 

Derek shrugged, barely looking up.

Talia rolled her eyes and looked just like Cora for a moment. “Just throw a book at him if you need help. He might surface.”

Left on his own (mostly) and surrounded by books, Stiles relaxed a little. He could engage his brain without exhausting his still-healing body. 

He shuffled to the nearest shelf and scanned the titles. Most of them seemed to be history books. The next shelf down was engineering, followed by plumbing, gardening, and first-aid. The bottom shelf was stuffed full of mythology and lore books, which carried over to the next row. 

Stiles carried one of each, one at a time, to a couch, stacking them on the center cushion and sinking into the corner when he had all he wanted.

He was halfway through _Tauton’s Plumbing Complete_ when his head started aching. He ignored it until he was gritting his teeth through _The Edible Garden_. 

A hand clamped on his shoulder and he yelped, dropping the book and knocking his crutches over. 

“Sorry! Sorry,” Derek said, lifting his hand quickly. “You looked tense.”

Stiles nodded, swallowing thickly. “Yeah, my head was…hurting.” He looked over his shoulder and jerked back a little. 

Derek was closer than he’d been expecting, peering intensely into Stiles’s face as if he could see where the pain was coming from. 

Stiles’s brain decided to take that moment to realize Derek’s eyes were somewhere caught between blue and green, that he looked worried, and that Stiles was just as interested in Derek’s physique as he was in Erica’s. 

His heart hammered, his face flushed. _Oh, help_ , he thought, not quite able to look away.

“Do you need your pain meds?” Derek asked, straightening up.

“Uh…” Stiles lifted his head, scraping his nose with his cast and blushing brighter. “Um, no. I think my headache went away, actually.” 

Derek smiled slightly. “Good.” He went back to his desk and Stiles watched him walk away and _Oh my god, I’m going to HELL_ , he thought, jerking his gaze away from that ass in those jeans.

Derek was smirking at his paperwork when Stiles managed to look up again.

 

Stiles spent the next few days in the library with Derek, who was not much more talkative than on the first day, but he seemed to enjoy –or at least tolerate—the company. He made sure there was sufficient lighting, and he offered to take Stiles’s books to the couch for him. He had not seemed to notice the crush Stiles had unfortunately formed.

On Wednesday, Stiles noticed the title of one of the books on Derek’s desk. 

“Hey, I read this. Are you writing a book?” he asked, looking at Derek’s papers.

The top stack was paper clipped together in a file folder, a picture of a man on the top looking surly.

Derek reached around him and closed the file. “Private,” he said with a scowl.

Stiles held up his hands. “Sorry. I just thought if you were researching something, I could help. I read _Celtic Lore_ on Monday, so I just wanted…Sorry,” he muttered.

Derek sighed. “I’m just doing a project. It’s private. Thanks for the offer.”

Stiles nodded and shuffled toward the couch. When one crutch slipped out of his grip and clattered to the ground, he considered soldiering on without it. He couldn’t bend with the boot on his leg, and he couldn’t stomach asking for help at the moment. 

Derek picked it up and handed it over and Stiles heard himself asking, “Do you find me attractive?” before blinding agony bisected his vision.

He doubled over, gagging. Tears rolled down his face, sobs choked him.

“God—Stiles,” Derek gasped. His hands curled around Stiles’s shoulders before he could collapse. 

The next thing he saw was Derek’s tight, anxious face above him. He was on the couch. Derek’s hand was on his neck.

“Are you okay? What happened?”

Stiles shook his head. His throat felt stuffed full of rocks, rough and dry.

“Here.” A glass of water lowered from the back of the couch with a bendy straw poking out of the top.

Derek helped Stiles sit up, and Talia helped him with the straw. The first sip was painful, but the rest was like ambrosia.

“What happened?” Talia murmured.

“I don’t know. I was handing him his crutch, he smiled, and then he was crying,” Derek said quietly. “Do you think—?”

Talia made a low noise and Derek tipped his head to the side slightly.

Stiles finished his water and his head drooped against the arm supporting him. 

“Let him rest,” Talia decided. “I’ll go talk to Darren.”

“Should I stay?”

“Yes.” 

Stiles was lowered to the couch.

 

He dreamed of a boy with messy dark hair, dimples, and a computer on his lap who threw something, laughing, when Stiles said, _“You never answered my question! Am I attractive to gay guys?_ ”

He forgot the dream when Darrel woke him up for dinner.

Peter and Boyd were absent from the table when the boys slipped into the dining room, but everyone else was finding a seat. Stiles had noticed before that everyone seemed weird about where they sat, but he just figured they were particular.

“Mom,” Dean said pleadingly from the head of the table. “We planned this for a _month._ ”

Stiles glanced at Darrel, who shrugged and sat beside Cora.

“Yes, I know. But it would be best,” Talia said delicately, “if you either postponed or chose a different place.” 

Dean’s nostrils flared, and Talia straightened her shoulders. Dean looked away. “Fine.” 

“Thank you.”

He muttered something and grabbed a plate, flinging himself down to Laura’s left.

Stiles felt, though he couldn’t pinpoint the feeling, like an imposition for the first time since he’d arrived. He quietly sat between Cora and Erica and kept his gaze on his plate while he ate.

“Stiles,” Darren said abruptly from his wife’s left. The meal was nearly done. “Are you feeling okay? Derek told me what happened.”

Stiles hunched his shoulders when everyone turned to look at him with concern, even Dean. “Yes,” he said quietly. “I’m fine.”

“If you aren’t, we can call Deaton or take you to the hospital,” Talia said in a steely voice. “You’re still _severely injured._ We wouldn’t want to jeopardize your healing process.”

Stiles shook his head, mouth open in shock. “Um, I’m okay. Really. It went away almost immediately.”

She smiled, apparently pleased. “Oh, good.”

Laura let out a little cough and Dean’s head dipped closer to his plate. Derek laughed and elbowed Isaac lightly while Darrel snickered.

Stiles felt like he’d missed something, but was distracted by Erica stealing his bread off his plate.

After dinner, Cora and Darrel talked him into playing video games with them. He discovered that, along with reading about landscaping and lore, he also liked shooting hell spawn and being second only to Cora in the video game scores.


	6. Chapter 6

A week and a half later, Stiles convinced Cora to help him saw his wrist cast off. He _dreamed_ of scratching his skin with his own fingernails, _longed_ to stretch his hand out without the heavy sweaty hindrance of the cast in the way. 

Cora’s key to the tool shed was taken away and Stiles was escorted to the hospital by Talia who, though she didn’t speak, made it _very_ clear she disapproved. 

Dr. Monroe was aghast. “Stiles, your wrist needs three to four more weeks to heal,” she said firmly, crossing her arms. 

“It feels fine to me,” he insisted, rotating and flexing it for her. The skin was paler than the rest of him, and smelled like dry sweat, but it looked better than the swollen, bruised mess it had been a mere three weeks ago.

Talia gave him a hard, intense look, and he consented to having his wrist X-Rayed. 

Dr. Monroe was disturbed. “It’s _healed. Completely!_ ” She fanned herself with the X-Rays and Talia asked to see her in the hallway. “Talia, he shouldn’t be able-” she began, but Talia yanked her from the room.

Stiles enjoyed fluttering his fingers, curling them into a fist, spreading them wide.

“ _Good job, kiddo. You’re doing great._ ”

The pain that came with the soothing man’s voice was mild, a wince and gone again. Maybe his brain was healing, too.

 

Back at the Hale estate, Talia helped Stiles out of the car and up the steps. She didn’t speak the entire time.

“Stiles,” Cora said as soon as he was inside. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize it would need a few more weeks to heal!” She looked near tears.

Stiles grinned at her. “Actually, it _was_ healed! Cast free!” He held up his left hand and Cora grinned back at him, wiping her cheeks.

Talia’s nostrils flared and she sailed past them to the kitchen.

Behind Cora, Dean and Derek were waiting, arms crossed with identical scowls on their faces.

Stiles swallowed. “What’s the big deal?”

“Cora could have missed and cut your arm,” Dean began immediately. “Your wrist could still have been broken. You could’ve hurt yourself even more.” 

“But it’s not,” Stiles pointed out. “And she didn’t.”

Derek scoffed. “That makes it better. Maybe when you decide to get a haircut, Cora can use the hedge trimmers.”

“You guys sound like Dad,” Cora said. “He asked me to and I thought the saw would be _safer._ ” 

Stiles frowned. “Safer than what? I know it was my plan, but even I know the saw wasn’t _that_ safe.” 

“Safer than, um, letting you try to do it alone,” Cora said, turning red. “I have homework to do.” She practically ran up the stairs.

Stiles smiled cautiously at Dean. “Now you don’t have to give me a head start when we play video games,” he said, and Dean relaxed enough to smirk.

“We’ll see who gets second place now,” he said with a little headshake that Stiles figured meant he’d been forgiven.

His breathing came easier. They didn’t _hate_ him. He chanced a glance at Derek, but he’d already turned to walk away. 

Dean and Boyd played video games with Stiles for a while. Boyd had gone to get snacks at some point, but he came back almost immediately, empty-handed. Though his face was as stoic as ever, Stiles got the impression that Talia had booted him out of the kitchen. He tried not to feel guilty about that.

 

Darren and Laura entered the living room and joined the game soon after.

“So Stiles,” Darren began, and Stiles cringed, his character dying. “I heard about your wrist.” His voice was disapproving.

Stiles slumped back against the couch, some half-formed plan of hiding behind Boyd’s bulk entering his head. He passed his controller to Dean and sighed. 

“I’m sorry. It was making me crazy!” he insisted. “And it’s completely healed,” he added petulantly. 

Darren hummed. “You could have asked someone to take you to get it removed. Not that Cora’s bedside manner is anything but delicate,” he tacked on sarcastically, causing Laura to laugh and walk her player off a cliff.

“I just…” He felt everyone looking at him and flushed. “I thought everyone would think it was too soon to get it off and then I’d be stuck with it.” 

Darren nodded. “I can understand that thought. Now why don’t you go to the kitchen and tell Talia that?”

Boyd made an aborted movement. “She’s not happy right now,” he said casually.

Stiles sighed and got up, grabbing his crutches. His thigh still hurt whenever he put too much pressure on it, so he was still stuck with the crutches for the time being. “I didn’t mean to piss anyone off,” he said quietly. 

Laura scoffed. “Well, you did. We like you possessing all four limbs, Stiles. When Mom heard that sa-”

Dean kicked her shoulder and she let out a bestial roar and leapt at him.

Boyd winked at him, so Stiles used the diversion to avoid another lecture and go to the kitchen.

While he went, he wondered what Laura had been saying. 

_Surely_ she hadn’t meant that Talia had heard the _saw_ from her study? It was a hand saw, and they’d been using it in the tool shed at the furthest corner of the yard.

He decided Laura must have meant “when Mom heard that _she_ ”, meaning she’d learned Cora had cut the cast off. 

Talia was baking when he got to the kitchen. There were cupcakes and cakes and rolls on racks and piled on counters. There was a single plate with a frosted cake on the island.

She grimaced at him. “I’m not much of a cook,” she admitted. “That’s the only edible one, I’m afraid.” She got out a small plate and cut him a slice.

He sat at the island warily. “I’m sorry,” he muttered when she looked at him. “I just wanted the cast off. I didn’t think you’d let me get it taken off.” 

She nodded wearily and sat beside him. “For future reference, you can assume we won’t dismiss your thoughts, Stiles. We care about your well-being. We want you better. You’ve grown on us, a bit,” she added with a smile, running her fingers over his hair lightly. 

The gesture felt familiar, but it didn’t bring a memory or a headache, just a little twinge in his chest.

“Thanks,” he croaked. “I’m sorry.”

“Good,” she said briskly. “Don’t let anyone but a trained physician near you with a handsaw again. Here. Eat this cake. You can help me figure out which ones to throw away.”

 

Cora came in to apologize, too, and once she was forgiven, she took three garbage bags full of bad baked goods to the bins outside. 

When they’d cleaned up the kitchen, Peter, Dean, and Isaac came in to make dinner, shooing them out. Peter paused by Talia and muttered something too low for Stiles to hear.

For a moment, her eyes…looked red. When she shook her head, though, it was gone, and her eyes were brown. “Tell them in no uncertain terms that they are _not_ to cross through Sunset.” 

“Right.” Peter grinned and handed Boyd some spices.

Everyone stayed up late, goofing off in the living room together. Because of his brace, Stiles was given couch privileges, though Peter sat at the end by his feet with his hand on his ankle. It didn’t bother him; he’d gotten used to the Hales’ constant need to touch. 

Erica, Boyd, Isaac, Cora, and Darrel wrestled around on the floor, and Dean, Laura, and Derek were squashed together on the loveseat.

Talia was sprawled out on the recliner, and Darren sat at her feet, reading. 

As Stiles drifted off, he could have sworn he heard dogs snarling and yipping, like they were playing mere feet from him.

He smiled at the sound as he fell to sleep.

 

He woke flailing. “Oh god, oh god, I’m gonna be late, shit,” he gasped, lurching to his feet. He smacked his left shin on a coffee table he didn’t remember being there. “Fuck, fuck, she’s never going to—to…” He lost his balance when he put pressure on his right leg, pain zipping up his thigh. He grabbed the back of the couch to steady himself, looking around in confusion. 

His crutches were balanced neatly against the arm of the couch furthest from him. 

“Stiles…?”

He blinked blearily toward Derek, who stood in the doorway of the living room. Watery, early morning sunlight was seeping through the windows, and they were alone in the room.

“Late for what?” Derek eventually asked, stepping further in. 

Stiles shook his head helplessly. “I don’t know. I just…I was really certain I was going to be late for…something.” He rubbed at his forehead, as if that could force the pain away.

Derek put his hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay, don’t try to force it. Why don’t you go back to sleep?”

Stiles frowned at him. “Why are you awake?”

A single brow rose. “I was going for a run.” He gestured at his shorts and sneakers, like that meant anything.

“Oh.” Stiles looked at his leg brace accusingly.

“Do you need help getting to your room?” Derek asked, picking up his crutches and handing them over.

A _yes_ hovered on the tip of Stiles’s tongue, but he couldn’t think of a good reason why he needed help, not with both of his hands healed. “No, I’m okay,” he said resignedly.

Derek frowned at him, concern wrinkling his forehead. “I can help you if you need it, it’s no problem.”

Stiles smiled. “I’m fine. Thanks.” He accepted the crutches and maneuvered carefully past Derek. “Have a good run,” he said in a falsely cheery voice.

He thought he heard Derek sigh, but he could have imagined it. 

He sat on the edge of the bed in his room, frowning. His headache was gone already. He was looking at the pain medicine from the hospital, sitting on the nightstand exactly where Darren had set it on the first day he’d been there. He picked up the bottle and shook it gently. 

His heart turned over. It sounded like…

He took a deep breath and turned it over to read the label for the quantity, then gently shook the pills out and counted them.

Not a single pill was missing.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Age chart for anyone who wants it:
> 
> Laura Hale is 28  
> Dean is 27  
> Derek is 24  
> Cora is 22  
> and Darrel is 17  
> For now, Stiles is in the vague "20"'s area with no way of knowing how far into his 20's he is.
> 
> I'm almost done writing this, so there should be a chapter count soon! ^^

Stiles went to the library. He couldn’t sit in the guest room while his heart was hammering like it was. He could remember his pain seeping away, assuming that it was his meds kicking in. But he’d never taken the meds. He couldn’t remember taking them, but he’d assumed he’d just forgotten due to his pain… or his injury.

One of the Hales—or Boyd, or Isaac or Erica, who were really practically Hales anyway—had always been touching him when his pain was leeched away. A gentle hand on his arm or forehead, his wrist or shoulder. Light, casual touches that Stiles had thought were just a habit with them.

He found some blank paper on Derek’s desk, and a pen. He glanced at the open file, skipping over the picture to the words.

 _Tyson Alder, 39, fae; clan Willowhaven_ was written across the top. 

Stiles drew in a shuddering breath and went to a tiny desk near the window. He sat and forced himself to breathe evenly for a moment. It felt like something was squeezing on his chest.

Then he began listing all the strange things he could think of that had happened since the Hales found him, even the things he could think of explanations to. 

He stared at the list, at his handwriting, which had briefly distracted him because he hadn’t seen it before.

“Stiles?” Derek sounded confused. “Are you alright? I thought you were going back to bed.”

Stiles hobbled off the chair. He left his crutches against the desk, standing awkwardly to keep weight off his right leg. It was hard to breathe, like there were steel bands around his chest.

“You need to calm down,” Derek said, alarmed. “You’re going to pass out.”

“Oh, yeah?” Stiles demanded, fists clenching. “How do you know that?”

Derek’s face closed off; he lifted one brow coolly. “You’re panting,” he said.

“So—so you can’t _hear_ it?” Stiles said. He was shaking. “Because Laura practically _said_ Talia heard Cora sawing off my cast.” He gritted his teeth when Derek snorted dismissively. “The other day, Darrel said your cousin Malia lived with her mother’s _pack._ ” 

Derek grimaced, which encouraged him. 

“You guys are always hearing things you shouldn’t, and—and you’re always _touching_ me, especially when I’m in pain, and I thought I’d been taking my pain meds, but all the pills were there! And your _eyes_ keep doing these weird—they keep glowing! And you’re writing about faeries over there like they’re real and,” he said loudly, coming to the biggest, worst point he’d only just realized this morning, “ _no one called the police._ No one has reported this. Me. The doctor at the hospital, your parents. Shouldn’t the police have been contacted? Missing persons reports searched?” His fingertips were burning, and his chest was still contracted painfully. 

Derek shook his head, backing away. “I can’t-” he began. His eyes darted around as if he could flee.

“Tell me! _**Now!**_ ” As he shouted the last word, the constricting pain on his chest snapped and the room shook. Behind him, a sharp _crack_ came from the window. Breath heaving, he looked at his hands. Blue sparks jumped between his fingers, winding across his palms. 

He looked at Derek, who looked stricken. His head snapped toward the door seconds before it opened. 

“Mom, I didn’t say anything—he just…he-”

“He figured it out. It’s okay, Derek.” Talia stepped into the library, followed by the rest of the family.

Everyone had clearly just gotten out of bed, partially dressed and with hair matted on one side or standing in uneven tufts. Laura looked the most alert. They all stared at Stiles, whose hands were still sparking.

“Are you going to attack us, Stiles?” Peter asked quietly, stepping forward first.

Stiles’s jaw dropped. “No! Why would I—I just wanted answers! Like this! What is this?”

“Energy. It’s because you’re upset,” Dean explained. “Just calm down. We’re going to answer your questions.”

Stiles nodded and flexed his hands a little, clenching them into fists. The sparks stopped jumping around, then faded.

“How’d you know?” he asked, still frowning at his fingers.

“Oh.” Dean smiled. “My girlfriend is a witch, too.”

“A—witch? I’m a witch?” His stomach lurched.

“Nice, Dean,” Darrel muttered, and Dean…he growled at him, eyes lighting up gold.

“That’s what I was talking about! _That!_ How are you doing that?” He felt a little faint, his heart hammering out a desperate beat against his ribs.

Talia was watching him like she could hear it. She probably could. “Let’s move this to the kitchen. Dean, call someone about that window. Laura, if you could call Dr. Monroe for me? And Darren, please contact Alan. Derek, Stiles, follow me.”

Cora frowned at Darrel, who looked pouty. “Can’t we come?” she asked.

“Yes,” Stiles said immediately. “Come with.” He was closest to them, and he wanted them near him.

Talia narrowed her eyes but allowed this, leading the way out of the library.

Derek tentatively handed Stiles his crutches.

Stiles looked at the window over his shoulder. It was cracked sharply down the middle, a jagged, thick scar.

“Thanks,” he muttered, taking the crutches.

“Stiles,” Derek said quietly. “We weren’t trying to lie to you. Just protect you.” 

“If I’m a witch, and I can do magick,” he said in a tight voice, keeping his gaze on Derek’s face, “did it occur to you guys that my memories might come back if I knew that?”

Derek shrugged, his own gaze on his shoes, but Peter answered from behind them. “Has it helped you now? Any new memories?” he asked almost tauntingly. “No? We didn’t tell you because you didn’t remember it to be true, and since you’ve forgotten everything, you’ve forgotten your training. You could have hurt yourself or someone else.” 

Stiles frowned, then limped past him.

In the kitchen, Darrel had made coffee, and Cora was slicing up leftover cake for everyone. 

Derek leaned up against a counter, far away from Stiles. 

Talia stood at the island, so Stiles climbed up onto one of the chairs there. 

“If I’m a witch, what’re you guys?” he asked without preamble.

Talia’s eyes lit up red and his jaw dropped open. Around a mouthful of fangs, she said, “We are werewolves.”

Cora handed him a cup of coffee and said cheerfully, “Woowooo,” like a cartoon wolf howl. Her eyes were gold and glowing, like Dean’s had been.

“What do the eye colors mean?” Stiles asked. “Why are they different colors? Can you turn into wolves? Do you have to on the full moon?”

“My eyes are red because I’m the Alpha. My betas have gold eyes. We can turn into wolves, yes. Anytime we want, but especially on full moons. We can also do a half shift.” She tapped her fingers across the counter, claws flashing where her fingernails should have been.

“Alpha. That means you’re in charge, right?”

Her lips twitched. “You could say that.”

“So…you guys turn into wolves. Is that why you didn’t call the police when you found me?” 

“Actually, no. That was for your safety.” Talia shook her dark hair behind her shoulders. “Because of the extent and severity of your amnesia, along with some wounds with distinctive markings spotted by Alan, we thought it likely you’d been attacked by someone who used magick, too. We thought—think—they’re probably keeping an eye out to see if you survived, if you go to the police or are reported to the police. I believe that if we did alert the police, your attacker might be able to find you.” 

“That’s why we haven’t had any visitors,” Darrel said. “We’re keeping you incognito.”

“So…someone gave me magickal amnesia? What about the hospital doctor? Did she know?” He looked at his fingers, remembering Dr. Monroe’s reaction to his healing injuries. 

“Well, yes. She’s a naiad. Sunset General Hospital seemed like the perfect place for her, especially when the marsh isn’t ten miles _from_ the hospital.”

Stiles frowned, distracted. “I thought naiads were freshwater…”

Talia’s face registered surprise. “Usually. Dr. Monroe is an Eleionomae naiad.” 

Stiles nodded in understanding. “They mislead travelers with illusions, and like virgin boys.”

Cora elbowed Darrel and laughed.

Talia shook her head. “Dr. Monroe isn’t interested in boys, virgin or otherwise.”

“Okay—magickal amnesia!” Stiles said. “How do I fix it? I’m magick! Can’t I just…” He snapped his fingers.

“I’m afraid it’s not that simple,” Dr. Deaton said, entering the kitchen. “Spells are more complicated than that. Judging by how quickly you healed, though, I’d say you have an easier time of it than me.”

“What—I healed myself? _How?_ I want to heal my leg!” 

Deaton shook his head. “There’s no spell for healing that doesn’t have serious side effects worse than the injury itself. If a young witch is seriously injured, however, their energy will, on occasion, speed up their recovery. You’re in your twenties, I’d guess, so usually that particular quirk would have gone away. Given the gravity of your situation, I believe your instincts kicked in and began trying to heal you.” 

Stiles scowled. “Well, why haven’t my memories come back? And what _distinctive markings_ did my injuries have so that you _knew_ I was attacked by another witch?”

Deaton’s lips twitched. “A new development?” he asked Talia quietly. 

She laughed and ran a hand through her hair. “He certainly doesn’t hesitate once he has questions.”

“I want to know!” Stiles insisted, leaning toward them.

“And you’re not frightened. You’ve certainly taken this in stride,” Deaton said shrewdly.

Stiles’s nose twitched. “They _explained_ , and answered my questions. I didn’t need convincing. _Tell me._ ” Cups rattled across the marbled counter.

Deaton’s hand rose and fell as if he were swatting a fly in slow motion. “Stiles, you are not a child. At the moment, you have little to no training, so it’s a forgivable offense. However,” he continued calmly, “from this moment on, you should know that simply _demanding_ answers, using your magick to get your way with other people, is not to be tolerated.”

Stiles paled. “I didn’t know I was using it against them.” 

“Well, your aim isn’t perfect, so you didn’t manage it, at least not correctly,” Deaton said briskly. “Now, magick generally leaves a mark when used against another witch, and it’s usually unique to the attacking witch. I removed the markings on you, but not before taking pictures. I’ve been searching for your attacker.”

“Oh.” Stiles looked toward Cora and Darrel, who were smiling nervously at him. He looked beyond them to Derek, whose arms were crossed, his face hard and angled downward. “Thank you,” he said eventually, looking back at Deaton.

He nodded. “Your memories haven’t come back because that isn’t an injury—not anymore. A very powerful spell has locked your memories away. Spells eventually fade or fail over time, so I hoped this one would, too. It hasn’t so far.”

Stiles opened his mouth to speak, but Talia shook her head, so he shut it again.

“Talia wants me to train you, so we can get a sense for your power level. Binding your magick didn’t work because you’re more powerful than me,” he said without an ounce of shame or envy. “And since these types of things only strengthen with age, we can assume you will be very powerful now, and more so later.” He straightened a bit. “It might be wise to bring in another witch for help with the memory lock-”

“I’ve already said-” Talia began furiously.

“-but Alpha Hale has decided, for her pack’s safety and your own, not to bring in any outside witches. As her emissary, I have accepted her terms.” His face remained smooth and blank. 

“What’s an emissary?”

Darrel spoke up. “A magickal person who helps protect the pack and works with the Alpha.”

Deaton nodded. “Put simply, yes.” He glanced at Talia. “At your convenience, we can start training. Today I have three cats and a dog scheduled for vaccinations, so I’m unavailable.”

“Wait! What does _training_ entail? I’m in a brace!” Stiles squawked. 

Deaton chuckled. “Not physical training. Just magickal tasks to test your skill level.”

Stiles huffed and leaned back in his chair. “Okay.” He blinked at Deaton. “This is _cool._ ” By which he meant, it was _terrific_ to know he wasn’t completely helpless anymore. “Thank you.”

Deaton looked vaguely confused, but he said, “You’re welcome,” before asking to speak to Talia privately.

“So…how mad are you?” Cora asked, approaching the island.

Stiles took a moment to consider. “I can’t actually be mad, I guess.” He gripped his coffee cup. “You guys took me in and made me feel at home. I just…felt like I was crazy. Or betrayed.” He slapped the cup down; it cracked in two. “Oops, shit.” Absently, he pressed the two halves together and dragged the tip of his finger up the line of the crack, sealing it. “Thanks,” he said when Darrel handed him a rag to wipe up the spilled coffee. “But I’m not _mad_ ,” he continued, looking up at them. “What?” he asked.

They were gaping at him. “Your cup, Stiles,” Cora said finally, and his gaze dropped to the cup in his hands. 

The mug was no longer cracked in half, but there was a thin, red line up the scar of crack. A thrill went through him. “I did that! I fixed the mug. How did I do that?” he wondered, lifting the cup to peer at it. He started grinning. “I’m _awesome_ at magick! Who needs training?” he snickered. 

“Did you see that, Derek?” Darrel asked excitedly. 

“Yeah,” Derek muttered. “Very cool. I’m gonna see if Dean needs any help.” He brushed past them out of the kitchen.

Stiles’s heart sank. He’d gotten answers, sure, but he’d taken out the brunt of his fear and confusion on Derek, who’d done nothing but listen to his mother…his _Alpha_ , take Stiles’s pain away, and keep him company. 

Darrel was smiling a little at him. “Now that you _know_ , maybe you should ask Derek what he’s working on.”

Cora frowned. “Why would he do that?”

He rolled his eyes. “You’re so oblivious, Cora.”

“What? _What?_ ” she demanded, but he just shook his head. “Brat, spit it out,” she snarled, grabbing his arm.

“Oh my _god_. Stiles has a crush on Derek, jerk!” He twisted out of her grip. Her nails dug gouges in his arm, but they’d healed before they even bled.

“Thanks, Darrel,” Stiles said dryly. “And Cora…how fast do you guys heal?” he asked thoughtfully.

“Instantly in most cases.” She grimaced. “That’s why I figured your wrist was healed when you wanted the cast off. It seemed like it was taking _forever_ to heal, so I thought, well, of course it’s healed by now.”

Stiles nodded. He looked toward the door. “What _is_ Derek working on?”

Cora started to answer, but Darrel elbowed her.

“No. You can talk to him. He’ll be in the library…eventually.”

Stiles scowled. _Eventually._ Did they expect Derek to avoid the library because he would be there?

 

The answer was ‘yes’, and they were right.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaah I finished the handwritten version. It's all written out and ready for posting! :D

Deaton came out a couple days later. Stiles had hoped they could practice in the library, but Deaton took him to the back deck. Talia kept the pack away so he could concentrate.

“From what Talia has told me, you do pretty well with magick on your own, when you’re calm and not thinking too hard.”

“I fixed a cup I broke, and some candlesticks in the library. I guess I’m kind of clumsy.” He waved his fingers and sat at the deck table. “I couldn’t fix the window.”

Deaton hummed, opening the bag he’d brought and setting out what looked like bundles of plants, and a small jar of soil or something. 

All of it made Stiles’s fingertips burn when he surveyed them. “What’s this stuff?” he asked, picking up a bundle of brown, dried flowers.

“That is digitalis.”

“Foxglove. What’s it used for?” He set it down.

“All sorts of things,” Deaton said with a smile.

Stiles picked up a bundle of twigs. “What’s this?”

“Linden wood. Good for warding against vampires.” 

“There are _vampires?_ ” Stiles demanded, clenching his fist around the twigs.

_Only suddenly, they weren’t a bundle of twigs, but a long, deadly-sharp wooden stake, and Stiles held it like he knew how to use it._

_“Dude! We can’t kill her! She’s_ sick! _It’s not her fault!”_

_Rage made him stutter. “Not—can’t—She’s going to kill us if we don’t! We have to, Scotty!”_

“Stiles! _Stiles._ ” Deaton shook his shoulders.

Stiles was shuddering, pain slicing through his head like a rusted butter knife. 

“Scotty, Scotty,” he panted, squeezing his hands against his head. “ _Scotty._ ” 

“Stay back,” Deaton said sharply over his head. “There’s wolfsbane out here.” 

Someone muttered something, but Deaton only said “no” and they left. 

“Stiles, the spell causes you pain if you force yourself to hold onto the memory. Let go of it.”

“Scotty,” he rasped, digging his fingertips into his skull.

“Stiles, _stop,_ ” Deaton commanded, and sudden, bright pain burned on his wrist.

He yelped and jerked away, dropping his hands from his head to grab his wrist. 

The agony from his brain left slowly, taking with it the memory and the name he’d come out with. He used the heel of his hand to wipe his cheeks, embarrassed. He was panting and curled up as far as he could into the chair, his brace-clad leg sticking awkwardly out over the edge of it.

“Are you alright?” Deaton asked calmly.

“Yes. Takes longer to stop hurting when someone isn’t taking the pain.” He wiped his eyes and sniffed. “I…I had a name, didn’t I?”

Deaton nodded slowly. “Yes, you said a name.”

Stiles waited. “Well, what was it?” he demanded.

“I’m not going to tell you.”

“ _Why not?!_ ” Stiles exploded, clenching his teeth to make sure he didn’t use magick. “It’s _my_ memory. I want it!”

“If I tell you, you’ll try to remember it, and it’ll cause you more debilitating pain.” Deaton pulled some gloves out of his bag and put one of them on. Then he picked up a bundle of purple flowers. “These purple flowers are wolfsbane. Aconite. They’re highly poisonous to werewolves. Poisonous to us, too, but not as badly. Put a glove on and pick them up.” 

 

Deaton showed him a bunch of magickal herbs and explained their uses, which thoroughly distracted Stiles from the name. Some of the herbs made Stiles wince, a memory surfacing and disappearing in a brief flash of pain. His brain was too exhausted to fight for a new memory today.

Other plants, he knew the uses of before Deaton spoke, surprising himself. He picked up the jar of ash. “What’s this?” he asked, turning it around to see it from all angles.

“Mountain ash. It can create a sort of barrier between yourself and any other supernatural creature.”

Stiles frowned at him. “Aren’t _we_ supernatural creatures?”

“Not…really. Witches are generally humans with a little something extra.”

“So if we use this stuff…”

“You’ll be protected from werewolves, naiads, faeries. Nothing should get past except witches and _possibly_ vampires.”

“Possibly?” Stiles repeated numbly. He was afraid, he realized. Vampires, for some reason, scared him, but not werewolves.

Deaton watched him steadily. “Vampires don’t usually bother people unless they’re sick. They consider killing and fighting…uncivilized and beneath them. Linden wood will ward better against them than mountain ash.”

He considered Stiles's expression, the tense way he was holding himself, then said, “I believe you were attacked by a vampire in the past.”

“Why do you think that?” Stiles asked dully.

“Because you have a scar on your shoulder that could be from vampire fangs.”

Stiles immediately shoved the collar of the red shirt he was wearing aside, looking at the skin of his shoulder.

There wasn’t a neat bite like in movies, two pinpricks of scarred skin. His flesh had been ripped at and chomped on. If Deaton hadn’t told him, he’d have thought it was a dog bite. 

“Are you sure it isn’t a dog bite?” he asked anyway.

“I could never be _sure_ , not without your memories. There are some signs, however, that point to vampire. The edges are still red, though the scar is obviously a few years old. I believe it’s probably a bit colder than the rest of your body. And the edges, jagged though they are, are thin and moving toward your neck. As if the vampire realized they missed.” 

Stiles felt at the bite. It _was_ a few degrees colder than the rest of his shoulder. 

“Linden branches?” he questioned, pulling his shirt back up.

“Yes. Any wood will slow them down, but linden is poisonous to them.”

Stiles nodded, tracing the linden twigs over and over again. “Anything else today?” he asked, not lifting his gaze from the table.

“Yes. Hold your hand out.” Deaton showed him, holding his own hand out, palm up.

Stiles mimicked him, flexing his fingers self-consciously. He was only just noticing that his hands, his wrist and forearms, were scarred up. Not horribly, not really, but he wondered what kind of life he’d had to be scarred like this.

A thick, neat scar bisected his palm diagonally, from his pinky to the base of his thumb. He wondered if he’d been defending himself.

“Now,” Deaton said, “let your energy pool in your palm. Take a deep breath,” he added before Stiles could ask. “Let it out in the span of eight seconds.”

Stiles complied, most of his attention on his hand. As he exhaled, he felt a tingle run down his arm.

“Again. This time, try to imagine your _energy_ moving down your arm to your hand.”

Stiles inhaled and felt another tingle. He imagined the tingle racing down his arm as he exhaled, down to his palm. His fingers twitched and sparked again.

“Ha!” he shouted, grinning.

“Again,” Deaton said.

 

By his fifth try, pale blue sparks were popping in Stiles’s fingers, crackling along his palm.

“Can you do that?” Stiles asked.

Deaton nodded, holding his hand out again. Brilliant, ruby red flames spread over his palm. He closed his fingers to extinguish them. “It’s different for everyone. I suspect your sparks will be pure white when you’ve gotten the hang of it.” 

Stiles frowned. “Why?”

“Nothing really.” Deaton shrugged as he began packing up his bag. “Nothing that matters.”

Stiles would look in the library later. “So are we going to do more of that next time? Some _spells?_ ” 

Deaton considered. “Possibly. We’ll work with your energy the most, watch to see if strengthening it weakens the memory lock.”

“Cool. I’m _starving_.” Stiles got up, grabbing his crutches. “Thanks for this,” he added.

Deaton nodded, waving him off. “Go eat. I’m going to speak to Talia.”

Stiles grabbed a couple apples from the kitchen, and some crackers, putting them into a plastic grocery bag so he could carry them on his wrist.

Then he went to the library.

He resisted cheering out loud when he found Derek in there.

Derek didn’t look up from his papers when Stiles came in, so Stiles just made his way over there and stopped in front of the desk.

“Derek.”

He sighed as if he’d been expecting this and looked up, brows raised expectantly.

“I wanted to apologize—for using magick on you, for yelling at you. I know none of this was your fault, and I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”

Derek sighed again, shoulders slumping. “I get that you were freaked out,” he admitted. “We lied to you, you’re new to this…don’t do that again, though.”

“Do what? I won’t,” he added hastily.

“Use magick on me. I didn’t…like it.” He shuddered. “Dean said sometimes it’s not so bad, but that…hurt.”

Stiles’s eyes widened. “I hurt you? Like, physically too? Oh god. I’m so sorry.”

“My chest,” Derek explained. “It was like you’d reached in and were squeezing my lungs. Mom thinks it was your magick contradicting her order not to tell you anything.” 

Stiles nodded, chewing his lip. “I won’t. I swear. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know I could do that.”

Derek nodded back but didn’t say anything else. He seemed more relaxed, though.

“So…what’re you working on?” Stiles ventured.

“Dossiers of all the supernatural creatures in Louisiana. There was a fae clan that moved in and ended up causing problems with us here in Sunset, so we helped relocate them. I’m just adding theirs now.”

“ _Cool!_ Hey, do you have witches in there?”

Derek nodded wearily. “You’re not in here, Stiles. You weren’t in Louisiana long enough for us to find you, if you lived here.” 

Stiles waved that away impatiently. “No, but what if the witch that locked up my memories is in there, Derek? Do you have their—magick marks in there with their other info?”

“Some of them,” Derek said, standing up abruptly. He started rifling through the piles of folders on his desk. “Witches. Here, you take these, start opening some of them. I’m going to catch Deaton and ask for a picture of the mark he found on you.” Derek rushed by.

Stiles scooted into a chair and balanced the files on one arm of it, his crutches on the other.

He flipped open the top file and began reading.

_Bethany Cavastan, age 26, 219 Old River Road. Mark--_

The picture was of a tiny, twining pink flower. 

_Eve DeChamps, 20, 1908 E Main Street, Apt. 1006_ had a pink flower with bigger petals than Bethany.

This was going to take a while if they were all that close together, even with the picture from Deaton.  
 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone sees any typos, feel free to tell me. I think I caught them all though. ^^

Dean and Laura joined in searching through the dossiers when they could. Stiles found out that Derek had only been working on the dossiers for about a year, but there were a _lot_.

Most of the markings were nature-related, so it was easy to skim through them, since the marks on Stiles had been three twisting brown lines. 

“Anyone hungry?” Cora said, bounding into the room with a plate stacked with sandwiches. 

Following her was Isaac and Erica, carrying a pitcher of iced tea and glasses between them.

“Hey, guys,” Stiles said, sitting up. He hadn’t seen them since he’d found out they were werewolves, though Laura had explained that Talia had turned Isaac, Erica, and Boyd soon after they’d graduated high school for different reasons. He’d been told to ask them personally if he wanted their stories. 

“Hey,” Erica said with a wolfish grin. “So you’re finally in on the _big secret_.” She held out a glass of iced tea to him, snorting. 

“Was it a big secret?” Stiles asked, rolling his eyes. He sipped the tea. “You guys were very subtle. _Pressure point_ ,” he scoffed.

“That was Boyd,” Isaac pointed out, sitting next to Laura’s chair and taking a folder from the pile by her. “So we’re looking for…”

“The witch that attacked me and locked up my memories.”

“Nice!” Erica said approvingly, moving Stiles’s crutches so she could sit beside his chair. “Give me one of those. Let’s find this dickbag and kick ass.” 

“Hey, now. The witch could be a woman,” Dean said, swinging his leg.

“Dickbag,” Erica said firmly. “Everyone can be a dickbag.” She squinted at the file Stiles gave her, then at the picture of the mark she’d grabbed. 

Derek had made copies so that everyone could have one while they searched. 

“Here, here,” Laura said faintly. “I didn’t know Mary Eldslip’s mark looked like this. It’s like a half-bird, half-fish. No wonder she’s careful not to leave it on anything.” 

Erica snorted.

“Brown marks—oh, sorry, these are spirals,” Dean sighed, relaxing into his chair again.

Derek sighed and grabbed a sandwich. “Thanks, Cora.” 

“Dad and Uncle Peter made them. I’ve apparently been regulated to a waitress,” she muttered, then whirled toward Stiles with the sandwiches. “Mom said you’re to eat, then Deaton will be here for training.”

Stiles took a sandwich when she looked like she might cram it down his throat. 

Training had been going well. Deaton didn’t so much have to teach him as remind him how to use his magick. Stiles found magick to be a source of joy and satisfaction. It was something he could do well, that didn’t cause him pain, and it made him feel like he was capable of almost anything. 

“Thank you,” Stiles mumbled, flipping to the next file.

 _Manny Hernandez_ was close, but his mark was paler brown and missing a line. 

“Hey,” Dean piped up. “Der, you got Miranda in here?” 

Derek looked up. “You suspect your girlfriend?” he asked in a gravelly voice. He reached out to drink his tea. 

“No, I was just wondering. I know what her mark looks like, baby bro,” he said, winking broadly. 

Derek rolled his eyes toward Stiles, who smirked at him and shrugged.

 

When Deaton arrived, Cora and Derek walked with Stiles to the backyard. It wasn’t so unusual for some of the pack to come watch, but Derek had always seemed to dislike seeing magick, or at least he always looked away when Stiles used it near him. 

“So…you guys coming to watch?” Stiles asked cautiously as he got to the door. 

“Yep. You don’t mind, do you?” Cora asked, opening the door. 

“No, it’s fine.” He glanced over his shoulder at Derek to check with him, but his crutch caught the doorjamb and sent him flying.

Cora caught the crutch that smacked into her shoulder, and Derek caught his arm before he could fall. 

“Ow, ow, ow,” Stiles complained when his shoulder got wrenched. “Thanks. Sorry. _Ow,_ ” he groaned, rolling his shoulder. 

“You okay?” Derek grunted, his face flushed. 

The pain drained away quickly, leeched toward Derek’s hand on his elbow. “Yeah, thank you. Hey, Deaton!” he called, grinning. 

Deaton was in the yard waiting, his sleeves rolled up. “Hello. Cora, Derek, please stay on the porch.”

“How-” Derek began, but Cora shushed him. 

Stiles made his way down the stairs. He left one crutch leaning against the railing while using the other to keep his balance across the yard. 

“Do you remember what to do?” Deaton asked.

Stiles grinned and held out his free hand. Immediately, white sparks pooled in his palm, spreading up his wrist. He flexed his fingers and the sparks gathered into a neat, crackling ball.

“Now, hand it to me.”

This part was hard. Stiles hadn’t yet managed to pass over his energy yet. Either it clung to his hand, shrank away, or dissipated when he tried. 

Deaton insisted it was _his_ reaction to the idea of handing over his energy—his power. 

So, naturally, it was the only thing Stiles really struggled with.

He squinted at his energy ball and held it out to Deaton, tipping it toward his hand. Like usual, it clung to his palm. Stiles furrowed his brows and _pushed_ at it, until his head ached. 

Finally, a single tendril unfurled and crept out to Deaton’s palm. 

Deaton smiled and gave him a helpful nudge, and cupped the energy in his hand. There was a faint red glow under the white. “Protecting me from your energy,” he explained. “This is very good, Stiles.” He flexed his fingers around the ball. “You’ve gotten a lot stronger.” 

Stiles grinned. “Thanks.” 

“I want to try something today, actually. I’ve found some theories on how to break a memory lock.”

“ _Awesome._ Let’s do it!”

“It may be painful. I suspect it would feel close to the pain you experience when you begin to remember things, only for a prolonged period of time.” 

Stiles hesitated. The pain was bad. But… “If it works, I’ll have my memories back. So I want to try it.” 

Deaton nodded. “Alright. We’re going to use a combination of our energy. I will lead you, so all you have to do is keep your hands up where I place them.”

“Both hands?”

“Yes. Can you balance without the crutch?” 

“Yeah.” He let it fall to the side and shook his hands out.

Deaton guided his hands to the sides of his head. He felt stupid. 

“If it gets to be too much—if you want to stop, say so. If you are incapable of speaking, drop your hands.”

He felt like he’d been given the safety lecture at the beginning of a roller coaster. “Okay. I’m ready, let’s go.”

Deaton sighed and lifted his own hands, red with energy. He spread them on either side of Stiles’s head, covering Stiles’s own hands. 

Stiles felt a little tingle on the back of his neck. Pain rolled through his head in waves. 

He gasped as images and sounds came to him. 

_“Lydia, love of my life, supreme goddess of my world,” he said cheerfully to a pretty redhead. “Have you-”_

_“No, Stiles. I haven’t finished the translations yet,” she said waspishly._

The pain made his teeth grind together, eyes screwing shut and tearing up.

_“Liam, have you heard from Scott? He’s supposed to be here.”_

_“No…. He hasn’t texted me since last night.” A young male voice came from the cell phone Stiles was holding. “I’ll check his house.”_

_“Thanks.”_

He let out a sob, but managed to gasp out “no!” when Deaton asked if he wanted to stop.

_“Oh, runrunrunrun,” he chanted. “It’s a Keelut, we need werewolf backup.”_

_The dark-haired girl beside him brandished her sword at the hairless dog chasing them._

_“Kira!” He skidded to a stop, one hand splayed wide. He did a spell that caused the whole dark street to light up._

He was sputtering and gasping, but he held on, tears streaming down his face. It had to be working, didn’t it? 

_“K-kelpies. Fu-fucking kelpies,” he stammered, emerging from icy gray water._

_A brunette girl came up with him, her lips blue and trembling. “Sc-Scott’s going to lose his mind,” she said._

_“We took care of it, Allison. I’ll explain,” Stiles said, running a glowing hand over her shoulder, then his own. They both dried instantly._

Something warm and wet ran down Stiles’s face into his mouth. He was shaking all over. Someone was yelling from far away.

_“Scotty,” Stiles said cheerfully. “We got the pizza and stuff, everyone’s in the living room waiting.”_

_The man in front of him grinned hugely, clapping him on the shoulder and sending the warmth of approval through him. “Awesome. Come on, then.”_

_People were sprawled together on the couch, the floor, and the loveseat, tangled together and half asleep. Some of their clothes had bloodstains or rips._

_“I know you’re all tired,” Scott said earnestly. “It’s been a long month. But I think we figured out how to get rid of them for good now.”_

_“Does that mean we’re off lockdown?” the redhead asked. “Because my mom wants to do a shopping trip in New York in August.”_

_“Um, no. Not yet. Stiles and I are going to meet them, and…we have a plan.”_

_“Whoa, whoa,” Danny said, sitting up in alarm. “You two? Alone? You’re strong, and Stiles is powerful, but Ennis_ alone _…”_

_“We didn’t say we’d be alone. We want back up. We just need them to think we’re alone.” Scott sat on the coffee table, hands folded between his knees._

The pain seemed to increase, a high ringing sound causing Stiles to shake his head blindly. Deaton asked again if he wanted to stop. 

_“Yes, Scott. I_ swear _I’m already on my way back.” Stiles shook his head, laughing._

 _“_ You said that two hours ago!” _Scott whined through the phone._

_Stiles lifted his hand in thanks when a little red car let him over. “You knew how long this could take. From what I hear, three days is nothing.” He glanced at the phone on the passenger seat, rolling his eyes when Scott huffed._

The taste of copper filled his mouth and his knees were starting to shake. Pressure started to build inside his head, like someone was inflating a balloon in his skull. 

_The car wasn’t facing the right direction—it was raining—there was someone standing over him chanting—blood drained down his throat. Was it his own? Was it the person chanting? Where was he?_

The pain became so bad that Stiles could no longer understand the images in his head, they no longer made sense, just faces and sounds.

People outside of his head were yelling, too, and suddenly the pressure building in his head gave, like a gum bubble popping. 

 

**Pt. 2**

Derek was already halfway across the yard by the time Stiles collapsed. Deaton had been flung from Stiles moments ago, and Stiles had said, “Stop!” in a voice of such ringing command that they’d all frozen momentarily, before power had burst from Stiles and threw Deaton across the yard. 

He was convulsing, a crumpled heap in the grass now, blood running freely from his nose and mouth. His eyes were open and no longer brown, but white…all white. 

“What’s happening?” Derek demanded when Deaton made his way to them.

“He’s trying to break the memory lock.” Deaton pressed his hand to Stiles’s forehead.

Stiles’s eyes fell closed and the shaking died to shudders. His face was gray-white except for the smears of blood around his mouth.

“It’s not broken,” Deaton said wearily. “I can’t imagine how a witch got to be so powerful.” 

“Can I take him inside?” Derek asked, turning Stiles onto his side so the blood ran out of his nose instead of down his throat. “Why is he bleeding?”

“Strain. I believe he also bit his tongue.” Deaton ran a hand down his face in a show of emotion that was rather large for him; Derek was shocked for a second, staring.

“Derek? Alan, Cora? What’s happened to Stiles? I smell blood.” Talia came running across the yard. She looked down at Derek and Stiles and her face tightened. 

“I will explain momentarily, if you’d allow Derek to take Stiles inside. He’d be better in a bed.”

Talia nodded. “Of course. Cora, grab his crutches, please.”

Derek carefully picked Stiles up with his braced leg facing out so he didn’t jostle it. 

Cora followed him closely, and, over the scent of pain and sweat from Stiles, she smelled like nerves. Her heart was hammering.

“He’s gonna be okay,” Derek said, though he wasn’t sure of it himself. Stiles was incredibly limp in his arms.

“What hap-” Laura began when they passed her in the hall, but Derek just shook his head.

“C’mon, Laur. Let’s go find Mom,” Dean said quietly. His eyes were on Stiles’s face.

Derek tucked Stiles carefully into his bed. “Cora, can you grab me a wet rag?”

“Yeah.”

While she was gone, Derek stared into Stiles’s gray face. It had been…unpleasant to watch. He’d cried and jolted like he was being electrocuted, and his heart had been going far too fast. He’d stunk of fear, but he kept telling Deaton to keep going.

He was so stubborn.

Derek sighed and closed his eyes, vowing to spend more time with him when he woke up.

The scent of agony and fear, the sounds of pain and distress…it had been like Stiles was dying.

Cora came back and handed him the rag, which he used to wipe the blood off Stiles’s face.

“Can I take some of his pain?” she asked, sniffling. 

“You can try.” Derek continued wiping Stiles’s face even after the blood was gone.

Cora let out a wet little snort and grabbed Stiles’s hand.

Bit by bit, Stiles’s body relaxed, though Derek hadn’t realized he’d been tensed up.

The door creaked open. “Everything okay?” Darren asked softly.

“Think so,” Derek muttered, leaning back.

“Deaton said he’ll be alright, just exhausted,” Darren said. “And he swore to your mother that Stiles insisted on continuing.”

“He did,” Cora said. “But his brain was being cooked at the time, so I don’t see why that’s good enough to keep going.” 

They all had a little trouble trusting anyone but pack on the best day, but usually Deaton fell _within_ the category of pack. After watching what he’d done, Derek didn’t think he could look at him for a while. 

Peter knocked on the doorframe. “Talia wants everyone in the living room. Darrel’s home and Boyd and I just finished work, so she does mean all of us.” His gaze dropped to Stiles and went flat, shark-like. “What happened?” he asked calmly.

“You’ll hear it from Talia,” Darren said. “Come on, before she gets impatient.”

Everyone was gathered in the living room already; Laura and Dean were on either side of Darrel, Erica and Boyd were on the recliner together, and Isaac was by himself on the loveseat. Cora and Peter sat beside him while Derek sat on the ground in front of the couch, leaning on Laura’s legs. She put her hand on his shoulder. Darren stood beside Talia at the front of the room.

“I want you all to know and understand what just happened,” Talia began. “Dr. Deaton and Stiles were training with magick, and Deaton decided Stiles was strong enough now to try to break the lock on his memory, and Stiles eagerly agreed.” She surveyed her pack. “Deaton warned him it would be painful, but he wanted to do it. While they did it, Deaton asked Stiles if he wanted to stop. He said no. Repeatedly.” 

Cora made some noise and Talia’s gaze fell on her. 

“Let me finish,” she said firmly. “The lock on Stiles’s memory is a lot more powerful than Deaton anticipated. Stiles said stop, and Deaton stopped. When he let go, Stiles collapsed.”

Tension charged the air in the room. Erica leaned around Boyd’s shoulder to see better.

“He has assured me that Stiles will be okay. He is checking him over as we speak.”

“Mom-” Cora protested. Her mouth snapped shut when Talia’s eyes turned red.

“Deaton is my emissary and, by extension, _your_ emissary. He would never cause us harm. I trust Alan Deaton. He did as Stiles asked and nothing more. Stiles will be laid up for a few days. He’s going to be tired, achy. And, if I know him at all, more than a little pissed off that he couldn’t break the memory lock.” Her lips quirked a little. “Any questions?”

“Can I stay home from school tomorrow to keep him company?” Darrel asked immediately, fidgeting with the hem of his shorts. 

Talia lifted a brow. “You think you’ll be a better bodyguard than your father, uncle, older siblings, and myself?”

Darrel flushed and ducked his head. “No. Just worried,” he muttered.

“I know.” She smiled, then looked toward Peter when he shifted forward. “A question, brother?” Her tone was a warning that had almost everyone tensing. 

“Just one. If you trust Deaton so much, why not let him bring another witch in to help remove Stiles’s memory lock?” he asked, tipping his head to the side as he did so. A mockery of submission.

Talia’s claws flashed at her sides, which Derek only saw because he couldn’t handle looking at her face.

“I do trust Deaton,” she said very slowly. “But I do not trust any other strange witches. Unless that is a last resort, I would prefer to keep other witches away from Stiles and our home. If Stiles decides to risk it, he may leave to do so.”

“What? You’ll kick him out?” Laura demanded, her claws sinking into Derek’s shoulder in surprise.

Dean only managed to gape incredulously at their mother. 

“You’d kick Stiles out for trying to get his memories back?” Derek asked softly. Now he couldn’t look away from his mother’s face.

Stiles had been with them for over a month, but it felt like longer. He was practically pack _and_ he was still injured. Even worse now, laying still in the room that smelled so much like him that it could never be a guest room again.

Talia’s lips pressed together. “I would not _kick_ him out. He will make that choice. He clearly had a powerful, dangerous witch attack him. I don’t want harm to come to him, but it’s my purpose to keep my pack safe. I cannot have him bringing strange witches here, especially when he wouldn’t be able to recognize his attacker if they were two feet from him.”

She pointed sharply at Cora when her mouth opened. “That is the _end_ of this discussion. Thank you.” She left the room with her shoulders straight and tense.

Darren watched her leave with a creased brow, but when he noticed his children watching him, he smiled. “I guess we’re going to be busy.”

“With what?” Dean asked sharply, sitting up.

“With keeping Stiles from wanting to bring in another witch and looking through Derek’s dossiers. And I think some of us should start looking through our grimoires for any helpful spell. Deaton may have missed something. He’s one man.”

“Dad,” Laura began uneasily, a guilty look crossing her face.

He held up a hand. “I know you’re busy with work, same as Boyd and Peter. Just like Cora, Isaac, and Darrel have school. Erica, when the fields can spare you, I’d appreciate your help, too.” He smiled at them again. “Your Alpha means well, and she struggled with this decision. Just remember that she hasn’t actually kicked Stiles out.”

That sounded weak, even to Derek. “Yeah,” he found himself saying. “He’s welcome here as long as he doesn’t try to get himself well again.” He stood up, fists clenched.

“Derek…”

“Can I go now?” he demanded, nostrils flaring. 

Rather than angry, his father smelled…sad. “Yes,” he said calmly.

Derek left the room quickly and went to Stiles’s bedroom, flinging himself into the reading chair in the corner. He’d just help Stiles find an answer before he got desperate.

It didn’t occur to him until hours later that with his memory restored, Stiles might leave anyway.


	10. Chapter 10

After the…fainting incident with Deaton, Stiles was confined to bedrest. He would never admit it, but he was tired all of the time anyway, so the bedrest wasn’t such a bad thing.

Derek brought in lunch on Wednesday, frowning. He was frowning more than usual, but whenever Stiles asked why, he just shrugged.

He was also around a lot more, sitting in Stiles’s room going through musty books and fresh file folders.

“I can’t believe,” Stiles began as Derek handed him a bowl, “that after all that pain, the blood, the fainting, I _can’t remember a thing_. Nothing! I know I …saw stuff while we were doing it, but I can’t remember what I saw!” He huffed.

“Deaton said you wouldn’t remember,” Derek pointed out, settling into his chair. 

“I know. I just hoped I’d remember _something._ A name, a face. Any hint.” He shifted around, tapping his spoon against the side of his bowl.

“We’re gonna find something,” Derek said, his attention split between his food and his book.

“Is that what you’re doing? You can take a break, you know.” Stiles snorted. “This memory blocker thing isn’t going anywhere.” 

Derek’s nose wrinkled, but he set the book aside. “Okay. Now what?”

“Now tell me why everyone is so _busy_ lately. I’ve been cooped up in here sleeping and I only see one or two people a day.” He set his bowl aside, too agitated to eat. “There are about eleven other people in this house on any given evening.” 

Derek raised his brows. “Well unlike _someone_ , some people here work during the day.” 

Stiles wished his crutch was in reach so he could use it to hit Derek with. Gently, upside the head. He was a werewolf. He’d heal. “Once this brace is off, I’m gonna help out. You _have_ to let me go to the fields. I want to see this sugarcane.”

Derek rolled his eyes. “It’s not that exciting.”

“No, not like the library,” Stiles teased.

“I thought you liked the library.” Derek was pouting. 

“You’re pouting,” Stiles said gleefully.

“I am not pouting. You’ll see. Peter can take you to see the fields and you’ll see.” Derek took a spoonful of chili and chomped on it so hard Stiles worried for the spoon.

“Yes, I will see.” He couldn’t wait. He had plenty of questions for Peter and Boyd.

 

By dinner time, Stiles’s mood had deflated even more. Darrel and Cora ate dinner with him, but Stiles barely touched the chicken before claiming exhaustion and burrowing under the blankets. Then he regretted it because everyone left him alone to get some rest.

He pressed his face to his pillow, fighting off tears. He didn’t know why, but ever since he’d gotten a taste of his memories—though he hadn’t gotten to keep them—he’d had a heavy weight in his chest. He missed someone. Whoever they were, missing them haunted him at night, brought tears to his eyes when no one was around to distract him. 

He didn’t have names or faces, but he had an aching in his chest. His fear that no one was looking for him had to be false. He had people in his life that he cared for deeply. Surely _someone_ was searching for him. 

 

By Friday, Stiles was bad-tempered and bored. Laura had come and forced him to eat after being _reported_ by _traitors_ that he hadn’t been eating. Derek still sat in the chair and read every day, taking notes occasionally. He ignored Stiles’s loud complaining now, more than he had before. 

“Derek.”

He didn’t look up, merely grunted.

“Derek! I swear to god-”

Derek sighed and kept working.

Irritated, Stiles rolled to the other side of his bed and got up, hobbling until he could grab his crutch. 

He had to lean on the wall and catch his breath after he got it, puffing like a chain smoker who’d tried to do a marathon.

“Stiles,” Derek said sharply. “Get back in bed.”

“ _No!_ If I have to stay in here another minute,” he wheezed, “I will go crazy. I will climb out the window. _Let me out._ ”

Derek frowned at him. “Alright. But we’re taking the wheelchair.”

Grateful and secretly relieved, Stiles didn’t argue.

 

The household seemed tense, though they didn’t pass anyone on the way out.

“Why’s everything so…”

“High strung? Full moon tonight. Everyone’s full of energy and tension.”

“Yeah? Hey, what do you guys do on a full moon?” 

Derek lifted the chair and Stiles over the doorjamb and onto the back deck. “We shift and run around together, hunt if we feel like it. We’ve got enough private property that finding space isn’t a big deal. It’s just a high energy family night.” He wheeled Stiles up to the table and sat across from him, spreading his book out.

“So you don’t like…have to stay locked away from…delicate human flesh?”

Derek wrinkled his nose. “ _No._ Why would we—Oh gross, Stiles! We don’t eat people!”

“No, that’s not what I meant!” Stiles laughed. Being outside had improved his mood drastically. “I mean, do you guys ever get the urge to like… _bite_ people? Turn them? Is that how it works?”

“Only Mom can turn people when she bites them,” Derek said absently, jotting something down. Then he looked up. “Why would you think that we would get the urge to bite people?”

He didn’t sound disgusted or insulted, which Stiles took as a good sign.

“I don’t know. I just wondered. For some reason,” he chuckled, “I thought you guys would be, I dunno, expanding the pack, or trying to. On the full moon.” He frowned. “But, yeah, that’s dumb. Why would you need to expand the pack? It’s already pretty big.”

Derek stood up. “Hang on.”

“Where else would I go?” Stiles demanded, but Derek was already gone. He huffed and looked at Derek’s notes upside down.

 _‘Revival sp?_ was crossed out and scribbled on as if he’d looked up the effects and didn’t like them.

There were a bunch of spells written on the paper, marked out, circled, underlined. Stiles smiled. He’d known Derek was looking for a helpful spell, but seeing the proof in his face was different. 

Derek came back. He was scowling. “I just needed to ask Peter-” he started, but Talia interrupted from behind him.

“I heard Stiles talking, though, and I know the answer to your question,” she said serenely. “So it seems silly to disrupt him.” 

Stiles grinned. “What question?” He looked from Derek to Talia and back again.

“If she thinks you knew a werewolf before you came here.” Derek dropped into his chair and started flipping pages too quickly to be looking at them, shoulders tight.

Stiles frowned at him, then looked back up at Talia. “So…you think I knew a werewolf?”

She sat next to him. “Yes. An Alpha, probably. Without a pack.”

“An Alpha without a pack? Wouldn’t that just be a werewolf?”

“An Alpha with no pack is still an Alpha. From what you said about expanding pack and locking the pack up, it sounded as though you had experience.” She ticked her head side to side thoughtfully. “Like you’d known an Alpha with no pack, near a full moon.” 

Stiles shrugged. “Maybe? It was just a random…thought. Why would an Alpha need to be locked up on a full moon?”

Talia tapped her fingers on the tabletop. “If the Alpha has no pack when the full moon comes, their instinct will be to bite and expand the pack. Instincts are harder to fight during the full moon.” 

“So…you think I knew a werewolf and had to lock them up on the full moon.” Stiles thought about it, rolled the thought around in his head. Other than a slight pressure above his right eye, his head didn’t hurt. “Probably not,” he decided.

Talia’s brows rose. “Oh?”

“Nope.” He tapped his temple. “Anything that might have been familiar has caused me pain to think about. I got nothing now.” He frowned. “Though I do wonder if it was because it was unspecific.” He shrugged.

Talia’s eyes narrowed. “That could be.” She smiled, relaxing. “Either way, it’s a thought.”

“Gonna check if any werewolf packs are missing a witch?” Stiles asked, jiggling his left leg. 

“Yes, I am. Well, we’re going to put some feelers out and see if anyone is missing an emissary. We’ll do so carefully, so as not to draw the wrong attention. Listening, for the most part.” 

“An emissary?” Stiles frowned.

“Oh, yes. Deaton thinks you’re too powerful to be a regular witch.”

Stiles shook his head. “What?”

Derek spoke up, though he kept his head bent toward the book. “An emissary protects the pack and advises the Alpha, as well as handling diplomatic meetings with other creatures or packs. The Alpha and the emissary share strength, which amps up their magickal energy. How powerful the witch was alone will determine how strong they are after they have an Alpha.”

“It means you’re more powerful than you were, and more capable of protecting your pack.” Talia smiled, but she looked strained now, and kept glancing at Derek.

He didn’t look up.

“So you think I’m an emissary. Is an emissary _part_ of the pack, though? You said _your_ pack, but…”

“Oh, yes. If you’ve been emissary for a long time, your pack will inevitably consider you part of it.”

“I’m not a werewolf,” Stiles felt compelled to point out.

“No, you’re not. But even humans can be part of a pack.” She ruffled his hair and smiled. “Enjoy the fresh air. It’s my turn to cook dinner.” She got up and left them alone again. 

Stiles glanced at Derek and frowned. “You okay?”

“Yep. Fine.” He still didn’t look up.

“So, you think I’m an emissary? Deaton seems to.” Stiles grinned and waved his hands, accidentally kicking up a breeze and flipping pages in Derek’s book. “Oops! Sorry, sorry.” He cringed.

Derek looked at him flatly. “It’s fine,” he said at last. “Do _you_ think you’re an emissary? Dad and Uncle Peter think if you are, you’d feel the distance from your pack by now.”

A pang went through his chest, that achy loneliness. “Maybe? I don’t know.” He looked toward the yard, crossing his arms.

Derek hummed. 

“I want out of this chair. _And_ this brace,” Stiles announced. “I’m _done_ with being injured.” 

“You can take the brace off when your femur is no longer fractured,” Derek said, going back to his book.

Stiles sighed and dropped his head back, watching clouds drift by. He thought one looked sort of like a butterfly, so he made a game with himself to make something from each cloud.

The next thing he knew, Darren was shaking him awake gently.

He snorted, blinking. “Huh? Oh, gross.” He wiped a puddle of drool off his chin.

Darren laughed. “Dinner’s ready, boys.”

Stiles rubbed his face and looked across the table at Derek, who had a crease in his cheek and looked as confused as Stiles felt. He snorted again.

“Did we fall asleep? What time’s’it?”

“Seven. We figured we’d let you two rest.”

Stiles made a face, then groaned. “Oh, god. I think my face is sunburned.”

Darren frowned. “Oh!” He looked guilty. “Oh no. I forgot you don’t heal from that like we do. We don’t keep sunscreen on hand.”

Stiles pressed the tips of his fingers to the tight skin of his face. His neck felt burned, too. “Ow. It’s okay. Do you have aloe?”

“Probably not. I’ll send Darrel—oh, no. I’ll go get some.” Darren frowned some more. “And some sunscreen.”

Stiles laughed. “It’s okay. I’ll survive the night.” He stretched and glowered when his right leg twinged. He was _done_ with that injury. So done.

“I’ll get it. Won’t take me fifteen minutes.” Darren ruffled Stiles’s hair affectionately before he left.

Stiles shrugged. “Well, cool.”

Derek yawned widely. “You stink,” he muttered, stretching his back.

“Um, thanks? You fell asleep out here, too, I’m sure you don’t smell like Irish Springs, either.”

He snorted. “Your _skin_ stinks. Like burning flesh.” He coughed to clear his throat and started gathering his things up.

 

Inside, everyone was eating various meats, barely bothering to chew before swallowing. All of their eyes were glowing.

Isaac and Erica were wrestling on the dining room floor.

“Wow,” Stiles said, watching them roll by.

“Rambunctious,” Boyd said, bringing Stiles a loaded plate. “Just ignore them. Talia will gut them if they get blood on the carpet.” 

Stiles laughed. “Thanks.” He picked at the food, then unable to contain himself, asked, “Can I ask you about your job?”

Boyd grinned. “Sure. Lemme get a chair. I got it, Der,” he added.

Derek mumbled something and went to get his own plate.

Stiles questioned Boyd for the duration of the meal, pausing only to take a bite and let Boyd answer.

Boyd was the one who knew the most about the fields. He sent weekly reports to Talia so she could be informed, but he knew the soil conditions, productivity, and growth rates, all the good stuff. He was in charge of most of the employees, but he was _involved_ in everything.

Every question Stiles asked, he had a long, detailed answer to, and by the time the pack was ready to go outside, Stiles was satisfied.

He would have questions for Talia or Laura later about the business end. He thought about questioning Peter, but figured that could wait until morning. 

“Stiles, would you like to go to sleep?” Talia asked while everyone rushed to the backyard.

Stiles shook his head. “Can I come outside?”

She nodded. “Of course.” She glanced toward the front of the house. “Finally. What took so long?”

Darren came back in the kitchen with grocery bags in his hands. “There are different types of sunscreen! And aloe!” He looked flustered. “The pharmacist recommended this.” He lifted a bottle of aloe lotion. “But the gel says cooling.”

In total, he’d bought three aloe products, and five different SPFs of sunscreen.

Stiles bit his lip to keep from laughing, but Isaac didn’t bother.

“He probably only needs this,” he picked up a cooling gel, “and this, Darren.” He picked out SPF 45 and set the others aside. “I can return these tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” Stiles said, accepting the aloe from Isaac and dabbing at his face.

“No problem,” Darren said, patting Stiles’s shoulder as he passed.

 

Outside, people were wandering the yard naked.

Stiles did not know where to look, so he looked at the sky.

“Prude,” Erica laughed, throwing her bra at him.

“Be nice, he might be uncomfortable,” Dean chided.

“Peter is staying behind,” Isaac said, taking a seat on the deck beside Stiles’s chair. “We’re the muscle tonight.” He grinned, ducking his head.

“You think I can’t sit here by myself?” Stiles demanded, hunching his shoulders.

“Talia wants some people to stay with you.” Isaac shrugged. “To keep you company and to keep an eye out in case anyone comes near the house. Unlike you,” he continued when Stiles made an irritated noise, “we can hear when they pull up to the house, or as soon as they step onto the property.”

Stiles pursed his lips but couldn’t find a reason to argue with that. “Okay,” he sighed.

Isaac snickered and stretched his long legs out. 

In the yard, Derek was stripping his shirt off, folding it by his shoes and socks. He stretched his arms up and Stiles watched his back muscles flex.

 _Oh jeeze, jeeze._ Stiles’s throat went dry. He looked away when Derek hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his jeans.

Isaac’s head was resting on his knees, shoulders shaking.

“Are you _laughing_ at me?”

“Only a little,” he admitted, lifting his head. His cheeks were pink. “I was the same way when I first got turned. Everyone just started stripping their clothes off. I didn’t know where to look.”

Stiles nodded, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “Are you guys gonna—whoa,” he gasped.

All around the yard, Hales were dropping on all fours and sprouting fur and tails.

Cora, Darren, and Erica all had brown-yellow fur, the lightest of the bunch.

Talia, Dean, Derek, and Boyd had dark fur, with Derek and Talia at the darkest end of the spectrum with pitch black fur.

Laura and Darrel’s fur was more brown-red.

“That is so cool. Are you guys gonna change?” he asked eagerly, watching Cora— _was_ that Cora?—pounce on Derek, biting his ear playfully. 

“We might, if you’re okay with it, and if Peter thinks it’s okay.” 

“ _I’m_ okay with it,” Stiles said. He laughed when Boyd, one of the biggest wolves, rolled on top of Darrel, who was easily the smallest.

“We probably will then. Just gonna let the others go on before we do.”

The wolves in the yard wrestled and played for a bit. Isaac shifted in place, squirming like he wanted to join in.

Talia loped up the stairs, her eyes glowing red. She bumped her head against Isaac’s chest, then rested her muzzle on Stiles’s knee. Then she went back to the yard.

The other wolves followed her when she started running.

Isaac let out a low whine, leaning forward and digging his fingers into his thighs.

Peter came around the side of the house. “Well boys, seems like it’s just us.” 

“Can we change, Peter?” Isaac asked immediately. “Stiles said he doesn’t mind.” 

Peter looked at Stiles, who shrugged. “Alright. We have to stay near the house, in the yard.”

Isaac nodded and leapt off the deck, bypassing the stairs completely. He threw his clothes near the others, stripping like a child who couldn’t stand clothes. 

Peter unbuttoned his shirt, but paused before he was done. “Do you want to sit in the yard? Instead of up there?” 

“Yeah. I can get down the steps.” Stiles struggled to stand, but Peter snorted at him.

“Just sit down,” he ordered, ascending the steps. He lifted the wheelchair with Stiles in it and walked down the stairs, setting him in the grass.

“How strong _are_ you guys?” Stiles demanded.

“Darrel could lift you and carry you from here to your room,” Peter said. “He’s the youngest and smallest.” 

Stiles gaped, but not for long—Peter was stripping and he really didn’t have any desire to see that. He focused on the sky again, the stars and the bright full moon.

He ignored the clouds. He’d already gone that route, and gotten sunburn for his efforts.

Two yellowish wolves were racing around the yard like dogs that had been given freedom after being cooped up inside all day when he looked down.

Stiles laughed, watching as Isaac darted in and nipped Peter’s back leg, sending him to the ground. He was up in a flash, biting Isaac’s tail. He yelped and bolted straight for Stiles, tongue lolling out.

Grinning, Stiles lifted his right hand and drew a shape in the air—to his surprise, the shape burned white in the air, and from it burst three golden foxes.

He gasped, watching them circle playfully around Isaac. They weren’t quite solid, made of thick golden mist.

Isaac tucked his tail and looked pleadingly at Stiles, but Peter raced by him, snapping at the tail of the nearest fox. His own tail was high and wagged once, as if to let Isaac know it was safe.

The two wolves began chasing the foxes around the yard, playful yips and barks echoing through the night. Stiles stared at his hand, then at the place where the shape he’d drawn had faded.

He didn’t know how he’d done that, how he’d known what to draw, or what it was that he’d drawn. What Deaton had been teaching him involved motions and finger flicks; so far, nothing involved symbols.

Peter pounced on a fox, teeth clamping on its shoulder. It dissipated.

Isaac scrambled after the other two, catching one by its tail.

Once all three were gone, Isaac flopped on his side, panting. Peter paced back and forth, ears twitching.

He paused, head turning toward the trees at the far part of the yard.

Stiles followed his gaze and squinted, watching what looked like a shadow race across the yard.

Peter lowered his front half and barked, then began racing circles around it.

Gold eyes—Dean, Derek, Laura, or Boyd?

The black wolf lowered its ears, circling Peter right back.

Isaac sat up, watching.

“Is that Dean?”

Isaac snorted, shaking his head like he had water on his face.

“Laura?”

Isaac coughed, getting to his feet.

“Derek?”

A high yip, and Isaac took off toward Derek, circling him in prancing bounds that looked playful.

Derek swiped at him and sent him tumbling down. Then he jabbed his snout against Isaac’s belly, jerking his head toward the trees, where the rest of the pack had gone.

Isaac tipped his head and whined. Peter chuffed and sat by his head.

Derek snorted and walked to Stiles and sat beside him.

Isaac’s ears pricked, but they both kept staring after Derek.

Stiles started to laugh.

Derek let himself flop onto the ground, letting out a groan, and rested his face on his paws.

“Guys, he’s trying to say you can go run with the others…right?” Stiles probed. 

Derek’s tail thumped the grass.

Isaac did some sort of happy skip thing that had Peter hacking out a cough—a laugh, probably. He butted his head against Isaac’s shoulder to corral him in the right direction.

Derek got to his feet and stretched, digging his claws into the grass.

“Guess what I figured out how to do?” Stiles burst out, wiggling. 

Derek turned, tipping his head.

“I made a fucking Patronus!” 

Derek sat down, staring intensely at him.

Stiles waved his hands. “Not _really_ a Patronus—I mean…you know…look!” He traced the symbol in the air again, and three more gold foxes burst out, racing circles around Derek. “See? They’re totally Patronuses! Except not silver. And I don’t need a wand or a happy memory…”

Derek made a skeptical sort of snort and Stiles flushed.

“And _obviously_ this isn’t Harry Potter.” He shrugged and looked at the foxes, pleased with himself.

One broke ranks and jumped into his lap, balancing on his knee. It was a barely-there warmth, no weight, and its head was up like it was looking at him. 

“Isaac and Peter chased them. It was funny,” Stiles said quietly. He frowned at the one in his lap until it jumped down.

All three sat at his feet, looking up at him.

Derek huffed and turned his back on them.

“Oh, like you’re too _dignified_ to chase? Please.” Stiles flicked his fingers and _one two three_ the foxes took off, running past and circling him.

He ignored them for the first minute, but finally broke when they started waving their tails under his nose. He caught two right away, but the third eluded him for about fifteen minutes. After he caught it, he flopped beside Stiles’s chair, panting.

“Wiley little things,” Stiles commented in a constrained voice. A snicker slipped through.

“Shut-up,” Derek wheezed, and Stiles jolted so hard he almost tipped his chair. 

“Wha—wha—” he stammered, turning to see Derek’s ass as he crouched to get his pants. Stiles snapped his gaze up immediately, then, curiously, peeked again. 

Well, apparently all that running had _some_ perks.

He quickly looked away as Derek pulled on his clothes.

“I was thirsty,” Derek said, tugging his shirt on. “Plus, it’s almost midnight. Aren’t you tired?”

“Uh…n-yeah. Tired.” Stiles laughed weakly. “Very—tired. Bed.”

Derek nodded seriously. “I’ll take you inside.”

It was eerily silent in the house, save for Derek chugging two glasses of water.

“What was that thing you did?” he asked, setting his cup aside.

Stiles frowned. “What? The foxes? I dunno. I just got this weird urge to draw a symbol midair, so I did it.” He shrugged.

Derek frowned. “It’s called a sigil.” He held up a finger and left the room.

Stiles threw his hands up and scoffed. “Not one werewolf in this house has learned the fine art of just _telling me what the hell is going on._ ” 

Derek came back with a book. “Don’t be so dramatic. Draw this one.” He opened the book and held it in front of Stiles. 

On the page was a symbol like a three with extra lines and a spiral attached to it.

“What is it?”

“Try it.”

Stiles sighed and lifted his hand. He didn’t have to glance at the paper again. His hand knew the shape of it, traced it instinctively. After he’d finished, lights and sounds popped in the kitchen. Musical tones and sunset colors filled the air, followed by the strangest sensation of being hugged, the scent of cookies baking.

“What is that?” Stiles asked, following a red light with his eyes.

“A sensory sigil. It’s supposed to be soothing.” Derek looked at the book thoughtfully, then set it on the counter. “Most witches don’t use sigils anymore.”

Stiles looked at the twinkling lights around them. “Why?” he wondered.

“Deaton…” Derek’s nose crinkled in annoyance. “Deaton and a few of the new grimoires we have say that spells are easier for most witches, even if not all sigils have a spell counterpart.”

Stiles frowned. The sigils seemed easy enough. “Weird,” he decided. “How do I make this stop?”

Derek looked at the lights and smiled faintly. “You want it to?”

“Well…yeah. It’d make cooking a bit distracting. And therefore dangerous.”

Derek shrugged and batted at one of the lights; it only moved out of his way. “Maybe they’ll just fade.”

Stiles didn’t know about that, but Derek was right—the smell and the lights faded first. “What other-” he broke himself off with a yawn “-kinds of sigils are there?”

Derek chuckled at him. “There are tons. Simple ones are in this book.” He held it out, but lifted it away from Stiles’s hand at the last second. “Which you’re more than welcome to use after you’ve had some rest.”

“What? Derek! Come on, man. I’m not that tired!” He had to bite his tongue to keep from yawning again. 

Derek gave him the most unimpressed look Stiles had ever seen. “Sure. Well, _I_ plan to use this book until nine AM tomorrow. So, until then, you’ll just have to wait.”

Stiles narrowed his eyes. “Fine.” He smiled. “I’ll wait.”

Derek nodded. “Alright then. See you in the morning.” He grinned. “Need a push to your room?”

“That’d be great, thanks,” he said politely. 

When Derek stopped the wheelchair at his bed, Stiles thanked him in a sugary voice. Derek looked mildly disturbed as he left the room.

Stiles set the bedside clock for eight AM.


	11. Chapter 11

Derek opened his eyes slowly. Stiles smiled cheerily at him.

“Good morning!” he chirped.

Derek yelped and jerked. “Stiles?” he croaked. “What the hell?”

“I came to get the book. It’s 9:01.” He grinned. “Where’s the book?” 

Derek rolled over, grumbling.

“Come back. I’ll leave you alone once I have the book,” Stiles promised. He nudged the side of the bed with his crutch.

“How’d you get up the stairs?” Derek groaned, hiding his face in his pillow.

“I _walked_. Using my crutches. I started at 8:15. Imagine if I had use both of my legs.” 

Derek muttered something that sounded like _I have_ but Stiles wasn’t sure about that. 

He flushed and said, “Book, Derek, the book. Hand it over!”

Derek growled. Full on _growled._ It was _sexy._

Stiles allowed Derek a minute to sit up and scrub his face, yawning.

“Your room is very clean,” he observed. The clothes in the hamper were folded. “I bet you never lose socks.” He only had the ten pairs Darren had bought for him when he first arrived, and he’d lost a couple already.

Derek glowered at him.

“You’re the one that said nine!” Stiles laughed. “Come on, Derek. You can go back to bed.” 

Derek fell back into his pillows instantly.

“Give me the book first!”

“It’s on the top shelf of my closet,” he grumbled. “You can’t reach it.” He rolled out of bed.

“God!” Stiles yelped. 

“What?” Derek demanded defensively.

He was wearing only black and gray boxers and Stiles needed a doctor.

“Just—just _warn a guy,_ okay?” He looked away, his face flushing. It hurt the sunburn. 

“You’d think I was hideous,” Derek said lightly, going to his closet.

“Ha!” Stiles snorted. “You’re _gorgeous_. It’s too early to die of cardiac arrest,” he said mournfully. He turned to face the window while Derek stretched. It was too much.

“Here, let’s go get breakfast,” Derek said, emerging from the closet wearing worn gray sweats and a t-shirt. It was almost as bad as the boxers. He looked far too soft and cuddly. 

Stiles huffed. “Do you know how long it took me to get up the stairs?” He followed Derek out of the room anyway, grumbling to himself.

“I’ll help you, relax,” Derek said. He got to the stairs and looked at Stiles. “Give me one crutch, use the other, and the handrail to get down. I’ll go in front of you so I can catch you if you fall.”

They made it down without any extra broken limbs. The house seemed to be empty, so they went to the kitchen. Derek helped Stiles to the breakfast nook, then set the book on the counter and started moving around the kitchen.

“Everyone still sleeping?” Stiles asked, turning toward the window overlooking the backyard. “Derek, oh my god.”

“What? What’s wrong?” He set the carton of eggs on the counter. 

“Your uncle’s _ass._ ” This was not true. That firm, shapely ass seemed to run in the damn family. There was in no way that could be wrong. “Why is your family sprawled out naked in the yard?” 

Peter was sprawled by Darren, Talia, and Darrel, who were curled up near each other. Darrel was still in his fur.

“Oh, that. That’s normal. They’re tired.” Derek shrugged. “It’s weird to you because you don’t remember werewolves, probably didn’t grow up with them.”

Stiles nodded. “I didn’t mean to be insulting. Just…” He shook his head. “I’ll get over it.” He looked at the table, then toward the window.

Once he got over the whole _naked_ thing, he noticed most of the pack was in their skin, curled up near or on top of each other, smeared with dirt and blood, while some of them were still in their fur, piled together in a rainbow of fur. 

“Do you want cheese on your eggs?” Derek asked, setting a pan on the stove.

“Yes, please.” Stiles looked away from the window and grinned as Derek put a washcloth over his shoulder. “You’re cooking for me? Sexy.”

Derek rolled his eyes. “Yeah. Brace yourself, I’m about to make toast.”

“My heart flutters,” he laughed.

Derek scowled at him and started cracking eggs into a large, yellow bowl. “You are very annoying this morning. Are you doing it on purpose, or is it natural?”

Stiles grinned. “All for you. I probably would have slept in, if I’d had _reading material_ last night.” 

“Well, you didn’t. Oh well.” Derek grabbed cheese out of the fridge and a grater out of a drawer. 

Stiles had witnessed all of the Hales rotating chores, but usually cooking required at least two people, maybe three for each meal. It was different watching Derek move around the kitchen with easy confidence, grabbing utensils and ingredients almost without looking. He started a waffle iron, too, grabbing a bowl of batter out of the fridge, along with some bacon and sausage.

Stiles rested his chin on his hand and just watched, smiling.

 

When he finished cooking, Derek made two plates and covered the rest. 

He sat across from Stiles with the plates and seemed to only just notice Stiles’s expression. “What?” he demanded. “It’s habit. They’ll be hungry when they wake up.”

“I know, it’s nothing.” Stiles looked at his plate. “Thank you. This looks great! Really.”

“Peter and Boyd are better at the difficult stuff, but I think I did okay.” He looked pleased with himself, picking up his fork and scooping up some eggs.

 

The pack still hadn’t woken by the time they finished eating, so Derek suggested they move to the library.

“ _Alright_ , here’s the book. Knock yourself out.” 

Stiles practically danced in place, opening the book as soon as his hands were on it. He skimmed past the introduction, the instructions. He could read that later. The first sigil in the book was like an incomplete five point star. It was meant to be drawn somewhere, a protection sigil.

One with three long, spiraling tendrils simply said _fog_ beside it, so he decided to do that one, drawing it midair as he’d done the other two.

The sigil glowed white and faded. Stiles frowned. Maybe he’d done it wrong?

“What was that?” Derek asked, looking over the edge of his desk.

Stiles looked down and whooped.

White fog was rising from the carpet in thick, roiling plumes. It crept across the floor like a living thing, spreading throughout the room. 

He looked at the book when it rose to his knees, flipping to the next page to find out how to stop it.

“It’s getting higher,” Derek said, standing up.

“The book says that unless I drew the sigil on something, it should go away on its own.” He looked at the fog, now at his hips and still rising. He grinned at Derek as he waded his way through it. “This is great.”

“Really?” Derek lifted a brow and looked around. “If you say so.” 

“I do say so.” He looked at the next page. “This one is for light. It says I should draw it on my hand if it’s an emergency, or,” he started laughing, “or if the power goes out and I can’t find a flashlight.” He drew the sigil in the air and grinned. “Handy.”

A white-blue ball of light balanced on top of the sigil, then midair when the sigil faded.

“And so subtle, too,” Derek said dryly. “Fog’s going away, though.” He sat in a chair near Stiles. “What’s next?”

“A shield sigil.” He tried it, but after glowing, it didn’t seem to do anything. He frowned. “Maybe I did it wrong?”

“You’re not in danger. Maye that’s the only time it’ll work?”

That didn’t sit right with Stiles—why wait until he was actually in _danger_ to find out he could do it correctly?—but he nodded and moved onto the next sigil in the book.

“ _Invisibility?_ Oh, I have to try this.” He laughed and read the description. It wasn’t really invisibility—more like intense camouflaging. And it had to be traced on whatever you wished to hide. Stiles put the book down, touched his fingertip to his left forearm, and began drawing. 

It was slightly more complicated to draw than the rest, but he did it with practiced ease, barely flinching at the burning sensation. The sigil sank into his skin and the library wavered in front of him. He stared at the sigil as pain pounded through his skull.

_He was standing against hot bricks, trembling, his hand clamped over someone’s mouth. A creature stalked back and forth in front of them, but didn’t seem able to find them. The girl squirmed. Stiles dug his fingers into her arm in warning. The thing was mostly snake, though it seemed able to grow legs at will._

_Stiles had failed to identify it, or what could kill it, so he’d come to help protect people from it. He and this girl were cornered._

_He had sweat rolling down his face, but he didn’t dare move. The thing would see him or hear him and he’d get the girl and himself killed. She was only a middle schooler. A baby, basically. The creature let out a low, screeching caw. The girl whimpered. The creature struck with fangs as long as Stiles’s arm._

“-tired to be doing this to yourself,” Derek was saying quietly.

“Like I do it on purpose,” Stiles muttered. He couldn’t even open his eyes. It was so soon after his and Deaton’s experiment that he felt like all of his energy had been sapped away, even after Derek took away the pain. 

“You okay? Are you still in pain?”

“Not anymore. Just tired.” He dragged his eyes open.

Derek had moved him to the couch again, and was crouching next to him, one hand on his neck, thumb on his jaw. 

Stiles had to remind himself that Derek had been taking away his pain, nothing more. He didn’t want to get hopeful.

“I’m taking you back to your room. Sleep some more. The book will be here,” he added sharply. “You can barely keep your eyes open.”

Stiles waved a hand lazily. “Just leave me here,” he mumbled. “S’fine.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

 

He fell asleep quickly. He woke a few times to people talking quietly, but he didn’t last long. When he woke up completely, he saw Darrel sitting at a desk he’d pulled close to the couch, leaning over a textbook. His face was pale, eyes underscored with purple smudges.

“Hey,” Stiles croaked, sitting up.

Darrel yawned. “Hey. There’s a cup of water on the end table.”

Stiles grabbed it. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” He scowled at his textbook.

“Homework?”

“Yeah. Mom let me skip today but two days in a row would be pushing it.” He yawned again and wrote something down. He sniffed and smiled wanly. “Dinner’s almost done if you want to go to the kitchen.” 

Stiles nodded and rubbed at his face. It was dim outside, not quite full dark. He looked over his shoulder; Derek was at his desk organizing files.

“Ready to go eat, guys?” he asked, looking up. “Stiles?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m gonna finish my homework. I’ll eat later,” Darrel replied, turning a page. He groaned.

Derek smirked a little, then got to his feet. “Come on, Stiles. Let’s let Darrel suffer in silence.”

Stiles stretched his arms above his head, yawning. “Coming.” He grabbed his crutches and got up, rolling his head side to side.

“You feel better?” Derek asked as they made their way down the hall.

“Yeah, just a little groggy.” He flexed his grip on his crutches. He felt a little sticky, too, like he’d been sweating.

“You slept for a long time.”

“And after I eat, I’m ready to sleep some more. All the sleep.”

Derek laughed, stepping aside so Stiles could go into the dining room first. 

Stiles looked around. He wasn’t the only one who looked ready to go back to sleep. 

Laura and Dean were leaning against each other while Peter set a vat of soup on the table in front of them, looking bad tempered.

Talia brought out bread and a pitcher of water. Her hair was tied back. Out of everyone, she looked the most awake.

“Chicken soup,” she said when she noticed Derek and Stiles. “Grab a bowl and a chair.”

Cora turned and smiled slightly, then elbowed Boyd. “Hand me the bread.”

“Get it yourself,” he snapped, elbowing her back.

Erica threw a slice of bread at both of their heads.

Dinner was subdued and a little bad tempered. Talia and Darren put a stop to most of the spats before they got physical. Even Peter snapped at Erica at some point and nearly sparked a fist fight. 

“Is it always like this after a full moon?” Stiles whispered, and Derek nodded.

“You would be too if you were up all night running around with a tail,” Dean snapped.

Laura popped him over the head and he snarled, half-standing. Talia snarled, too, and they both whined, ducking their heads.

They lasted until the end of dinner. Laura dropped a plate on her way to the kitchen, and a shard dug into Dean’s leg, which sparked a two-second argument that devolved into a fight. It looked vicious, eyes and fangs flashing, blood flecking the walls.

Stiles gaped from the doorway until Talia nudged him behind Derek. She surveyed her children as they snapped and growled at each other. When Laura got Dean under her, snapping at his face, Talia joined the fray, knocking Laura to the ground and onto her back. 

Panting, the siblings lifted their chins and avoided her gaze. A gash on Dean’s forehead healed, while a bruise on Laura’s chin faded.

“You are adults. Act like it. Laura, go take the trash out. Dean, you’re on dishes. Now.” Talia’s eyes were _redredred._

They scrambled to their feet and took off but, Stiles noticed, not before catching each other’s eyes and grinning.

Talia stood. “Those two love to fight, I swear.”

“Like we weren’t the same way,” Peter snorted.

“When we were _teenagers._ They’re nearly thirty.” Talia scowled.

Stiles glanced at Cora, who was holding a hand over her mouth, eyes dancing with amusement. He started to grin, too, and had to duck his head to hide it.

“Everyone who doesn’t have a chore tonight, go to bed. Erica, Isaac, go carry the dishes to Dean, and help load the dishwasher. Cora, Boyd, you’re good. Derek, help me clear off the table,” Darren ordered. He patted Talia’s shoulder as he passed; she kissed his cheek.

“Can I help with anything?” Stiles asked impulsively, and everyone in the room turned to look at him in tandem. “Or…not.” 

“You’re sweet,” Talia said with a smile. “We’ll put you to work once you lose the crutches.”

He sighed. “Alright.” He looked around at everyone wiping up spills or picking up dishes and shrugged. “Goodnight, then.”

“Goodnight,” they chorused with varying degrees of cheer.

Boyd walked with Stiles to his room. He was telling Stiles about the different kinds of plants he was growing at his place, which was closer to the fields and which he shared with Erica.

It turned out Boyd _really_ loved plants, which was good, because Stiles _really_ loved information. 

“Strawberries, too?” Stiles hummed. “I think I like strawberries. What else do you grow? Do you do certain things in different times of the year? Can I come see your garden when my leg is better?”

Boyd grinned and answered his questions. He seemed more relaxed than he had been at dinner, which was good.

After Dean and Laura’s fight, Stiles didn’t want to accidentally piss anyone off.

Before long, Derek joined them. He was content to listen until Boyd declared himself too tired to continue.

“You know,” Derek said thoughtfully, “he rarely talks that much to anyone, especially after a full moon.”

Stiles shrugged. “I wanted to know about plants, Erica said he liked plants. People talk about things they like.”

Derek nodded.

They were staring at each other. Stiles realized it and immediately felt awkward. He looked over Derek’s head, then at his shoulder, his fluffy hair, his stubble-dusted chin. 

“Stiles,” he began, then turned his head. He sighed. “Mom said your dinner’s in the fridge.”

Darrel came shambling past. He grunted in acknowledgement, letting his head rest against Derek’s shoulder for a second before moving past to the dining room. 

“Wow.”

“Food helps. And rest,” he added. “Which we should be getting. Goodnight, Stiles.” He patted him on the shoulder, paused, sighed, and went for the stairs. 

Stiles frowned after him, then went to his own room.

 

The next morning, Stiles woke to hear Cora shouting that she’d drive Darrel to school, and Talia shouting that people were sleeping. He rolled over, stretching his legs.

He sat bolt upright and threw the blanket off. He’d kicked his brace off in the middle of the night. He’d done it before, but he’d always woken in pain when that happened.

His heart started hammering with excitement. He got out of bed and carefully allowed his weight to settle on both legs. It felt so good to stand without help he nearly cried, and he’d be a liar if he said he didn’t tear up a little.

He whooped and did a lap around his room, marveling at his own leg.

He paused when he heard people talking near his room. Reluctantly, he strapped the brace on and grabbed one crutch, opening his door.

Derek and Dean were shuffling by. Dean had his arm around Derek’s shoulders.

“Hey, Stiles. Morning,” Dean said sleepily.

“Good morning. Can someone drive me to the hospital?”

When a dish broke in the kitchen, it occurred to Stiles that wording mattered, and he should have clarified.

“I’m okay! I think my leg has healed.”

Talia started laughing in the kitchen and Darren started swearing.

“Sorry!”

“It’s okay!” Darren called in a falsely cheery voice. “I don’t think a werewolf can die of a heart attack, though I sure as hell tried.”

Stiles laughed weakly.

“I can drive you,” Derek offered, smiling slightly.

“Sure!” His voice squeaked. _Gods._ “That’d be great.”

Dean smirked. “I’m gonna have breakfast. Have fun at the _hospital_ , bro.” 

“Dick,” Derek said fervently, surprising a laugh out of Stiles. 

Dean laughed, too, knocking his knuckles against Derek’s head and ruffling Stiles’s hair.

“Why do they all do that?” Stiles asked as it occurred to him. It’d started with Talia. Now they were all starting to do it.

“Habit, probably. We’re all sharing scents.” Derek looked at his own clothes, sweats and a tank top. “I should change. We won’t make it out of the driveway before Dean chases us down and drags me back inside.”

Stiles laughed. He had the greatest mental image of Dean on all fours chasing a car like a lion chasing a safari vehicle. “You look fine to me.”

Derek smirked. “Yeah, but you’ve been wearing varying colors of sweatpants for weeks.”

“Point.” He sighed. “Very fashionable, I’m sure.”

“We can get you some jeans while we’re out. If you want.”

Stiles hesitated. Taking _more_ from the Hales? Yet the idea of _clothes_ and, better, the _outside world_ , sounded so appealing. “That’d be great. Thank you.”

Derek smiled fully. “Sure. I’ll be right down.”

Stiles went to take a speedy shower before Talia could make him sit in the shower chair (he never wanted to think about it again, he’d rather have a broken leg forever than deal with that thing again) and then he went to the kitchen to snag some toast. He said good morning to Darren and Talia, too. They were “cooking” together, which meant Talia was sitting on the island swinging her bare feet while Darren worked around her. 

Every now and then she would reel him in for a kiss.

They were…sweet. It was nice to see. They didn’t seem to mind that Stiles was there, seemed pleased to see him, even.

The two of them together made something in Stiles’s chest ache a little, but in a good way.

“Remember to be careful while you’re out, Stiles,” Talia said, leaning her chin on Darren’s shoulder. “Stick close to Derek, and tell Derek when you go to get some clothes, it should be outside of Sunset.”

He nodded, smiling at her. 

“Ready?” Derek asked.

Stiles looked toward him and nodded blindly. He barely registered Derek at all until they were in the sunlight.

“You okay? You seem…sad.”

“No, I’m not. Your parents are affectionate.”

Derek’s nose wrinkled. “Yeah, I know.”

Stiles laughed, his weird mood broken. “Never mind. Which car are we taking?” He looked toward the driveway. He saw the SUV Darren, Cora, and Darrel had been in when they’d found him. 

“We’re taking Laura’s,” Derek said quietly. “While she’s sleeping.” He was like a little boy sneaking to the kitchen for a candy raid. 

Stiles saw why when they rounded the SUV. Laura’s car was a sleek black Camaro. It gleamed in the sun like the coat of a well-kept purebred dog. “She’s going to _gut you_ ,” Stiles snickered.

Derek shushed him and got in the driver’s seat, gesturing impatiently for him to hurry up. 

 

Dr. Monroe spotted Stiles in the waiting room and threw a fit. Stiles thought she was going to get escorted out. She calmed herself down when Derek dissolved into laughter.

“Get back there. Not _one word_ ,” she added fiercely. “Your leg is _not done healing._ It’s not even been six weeks, Stiles.” She closed the exam room’s door. “Do you know how long a femur takes to heal?” she demanded.

“Six to eight weeks,” he answered weakly. “But if you could just X-Ray it…”

Her face twitched. “Fine. _Fine!_ It’s not done.”

 

After it’d been X-Rayed, Derek and Stiles played Hangman in the room until Stiles heard Dr. Monroe’s enraged shriek. He started laughing, losing his grip on the pen.

Derek tilted his head. “Sounds like you’re all healed.” He grinned up at Stiles, who was sitting on the hospital bed. “Congrats.”

“Thanks. Let’s see if we can get out before she comes back.”

“Too late,” Derek murmured.

The door flew open. “ _How?!_ ” Dr. Monroe demanded, clutching the X-Rays.

“I dunno. Magick?” He grinned when her eye twitched.

“Five and a half _weeks_ ,” she snarled, “is not _enough_.” 

Stiles shrugged. “Did you want me in pain longer?” 

She frowned. “Of course not,” she said dismissively. She deflated. “Oh, fine. You’re all healed. Get out of here. Come back if you decide to break your other limbs.”

Stiles hopped off the bed, grinning.

As they left, she was looking at the X-Rays in a sort of defeated way. Stiles almost felt bad, but he was too thrilled to walk on his own. 

Derek only laughed when he ran to the Camaro, doing little leaps and skips, testing the strength of his newly freed leg.

“You look like a toddler that just figured out how to run,” he observed, laughing when Stiles did a poor imitation of ballet in the parking lot. 

“Be quiet. This is the best moment ever. This is what happiness is.” He threw his arms up and ran a victory circle around the car. He was going for his second lap when Derek caught his arm gently, turning him. It seemed perfect, expected, _fated_ that he just turned and pressed and enthusiastic kiss to Derek’s mouth, clasping his hands on Derek’s cheeks.

Derek sighed and dropped his hands to Stiles’s waist, pulling him closer.

A second later, they broke apart. Stiles grinned up at Derek. “Best moment _ever_ ,” he reiterated. 

Derek laughed breathlessly, leaning down to bump his nose against Stiles’s. 

Stiles grabbed his face and kissed him again, hard and fast. “Gods, you’re cute. Nose bumps. You’re so cute.”

Derek’s face turned red. “Come on,” he mumbled, but he was still smiling.

“Clothes! I need clothes!” Stiles smiled. “Jeans! No more baggy sweats for me.”

“Nope.” Derek opened his door for him first.

“You are adorable.”

“I am a fierce creature of the night.” He was smirking when he got in the car.

“A creature of the night who does nose bumps.” Stiles poked at the radio. “Let’s get milkshakes, too.”

They were out until past lunchtime. Stiles was so happy to be outside that he was sure Derek was indulging him rather than his own desire to go to a fast food restaurant. 

 

When they got home, Laura was already outside. She snatched the keys from Derek, kissed Stiles’s cheek, and squealed out of the driveway without a word.

Derek’s smile was gone, and the closer he got to the house, the more tense he became. Stiles unconsciously mimicked him, though he couldn’t hear or smell what Derek could.

As soon as they walked in, though, Stiles heard raised voices. Dean and Talia were in the living room arguing. 

“I’m sorry, Dean. No.”

“Mom! I’m going to ask her to _marry me_ in two months!” Dean’s voice rose. 

“Sweetheart,” Talia said quietly. She paused. “The answer is still no.”

Dean inhaled sharply. “Is she not welcome in the pack?” he demanded. His voice was low, wounded.

“I never said that,” Talia said quickly.

“But you don’t trust her.” Dean’s voice was cutting.

In response, Talia’s became fierce. “I can’t right now.”

Dean let out a low snarl and stormed from the room. He didn’t seem to notice Derek and Stiles standing there, stunned.

Stiles felt _terrible_. He was the reason Dean wasn’t able to see his soon-to-be-fiancé. He was causing screaming matches between mother and son. Dean probably _hated him_.

Derek whimpered and shifted his feet.

“You can go, um, go to him,” Stiles said instantly. “He’s your brother.”

“He’s not mad at _you_ ,” Derek said quietly, before going after his big brother.

Talia found him in the hall and dully asked if he wanted ice cream. They split a gallon and a half of Rocky Road.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ehhhh. I wasn't going to post this today, but [rebekahdarian](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rebekahdarian) reminded me that I said I would.

Stiles trailed Boyd and Peter at work all of Friday and Saturday. Derek refused to go with. Stiles was okay with that. He learned a lot, and Peter and Boyd were happy to show him.

Saturday evening, Stiles and Derek were in the backyard. Derek was sprawled in the grass—sunbathing like a puppy, not that he’d admit it—and Stiles sat back against his knees, reading the sigil book. He reached back and ran his fingers over Derek’s left ankle, making him squirm and laugh.

“Ticklish?” Stiles asked eagerly, turning around.

“No,” Derek said, keeping his eyes shut.

“Oh, good,” Stiles said. “Then I can just…” He skimmed his fingers firmly over Derek’s ribs.

His breath caught. “Stiles.”

“I thought you weren’t ticklish. Are you?”

“No, I’m not.” His mouth curved, though, and Stiles dug his fingers into his ribs ruthlessly. 

Derek gasped and curled up, shaky laughter tumbling from his mouth when Stiles just shifted and continued.

“Okay, okay!” Derek laughed, scrambling back and out of Stiles’s reach. 

Stiles grinned. “You’re ticklish.”

Derek squinted at him. “You are, too,” he accused.

“Probably.” Stiles shrugged, letting out a squawk when Derek tackled him to the grass, rubbing his stubbled jaw and chin all over Stiles’s throat, making him gasp and giggle.

“Probably,” Derek scoffed, pressing his lips to Stiles’s neck and digging his fingers into his ribs.

Stiles’s laughter rang out over the yard, legs kicking helplessly. “Okay, truce!” he yelped, panting.

Derek rolled off instantly, laughing. He turned his head to grin at Stiles, who couldn’t help grinning back. Stiles rolled over so he was on top of Derek, knees on either side of his thighs. 

Derek lifted his brows and put his hands behind his head.

“You look so smug,” Stiles sighed. He leaned down and kissed him, dropping his hands next to Derek’s head, boxing him in.

Derek sighed and brought his hands up to Stiles’s face. Stiles gently prodded his lips with his tongue, until Derek opened his mouth.

Derek’s fingers crept up Stiles’s waist, bunching his shirt up and stroking his sides lightly; he didn’t laugh this time. Stiles dug his fingers into the grass and pressed his hips down, making Derek jerk in surprise. 

When Stiles couldn’t catch his breath, he turned his head, gasping against Derek’s cheek. Derek kissed and nipped at his jaw. Stiles sat back, bracing his hands against Derek’s chest.

He smiled down at him. 

Derek lifted a brow.

“Nothing. I-” He got cut off when Derek, with _zero warning_ shot to his feet, knocking Stiles into the grass, and flung his shirt off. “Uh…if you wanted to continue, we could have…” he said slowly.

Derek shuddered. “There was a…something crawled in my shirt.” 

Brows lifted, Stiles reached for Derek’s discarded shirt and picked it up. A very threatening grasshopper jumped out. He looked up at Derek.

“Don’t-” Derek began.

“Fierce creature of the night my ass!” Stiles crowed, laughter bursting free.

“-start,” Derek finished in defeat. He sat on the porch steps, resigned.

“That’s why you didn’t want to come to the fields! You’re afraid of bugs!” Stiles paused and looked at his face, drawn and miserable. “Don’t worry. I’ll protect you.” He shook Derek’s shirt out and held it out to him.

“They’re gross,” Derek said abruptly. “All the legs…” He rolled his shoulders.

“Do you also fear butterflies?”

Derek scowled.

“I’m serious!” Stiles smiled. “I’m not making fun of you. You’re right, some bugs are really horrible. Wasps. Wasps are terrible. I will run.”

Derek rolled his eyes. 

Stiles cast around for a subject change. “I haven’t seen Deaton in a while. Is he still gonna be training me, or did I scare him off when I fainted?”

Derek seemed to close off a bit. “You’ll have to ask Mom about setting up a time,” he said stiffly.

Stiles frowned. “Oh- _kay_.” He kicked the grass. “Is Dean still mad?”

Derek shrugged. “He’s better. Mom told him he could visit Miranda, so he’s being less of a-” he coughed, cutting himself off. “He’s in a better mood.”

Stiles smirked. “Nice. I’m glad he got to see her.” His smile fell away though. “I’m sorry that I was-”

“It’s not your _fault_.” Derek scowled. “You were attacked. My dad took you in, and when my mom got back, she said you could stay. That means if something’s gonna put you in danger, she won’t allow it. Just like if Darrel wanted to date a hunter, she also wouldn’t allow that, no matter the fit he threw.”

Distracted, Stiles asked, “Darrel wanted to date a _werewolf hunter?_ ” Because that seemed like bigger news. 

Darrel seemed so smart.

Derek sighed. “It was an example.” He rolled his eyes. “Go ask Mom if you want Deaton. I think I’m going for a run.”

Stiles frowned. “Why don’t we play tag instead?” he asked brightly.

“Tag? What, are you ten?”

Stiles pouted. “It’ll be fun. We can go to the woods, I can raise some fog...” He spread his hands. “C’mon, Derek!”

The door opened and Darrel, Isaac, Cora, and Erica flooded out, eagerly bumping against Derek’s sides.

“C’mon, Derek,” they chorused.

“Fine. _Only_ if I can play in my fur.”

Cora cheered and high-fived Isaac.

“Me too!” Erica said.

“And Isaac,” Darrel said. “Three and three.”

By the time they’d made it to the woods, it was no longer three on three. It was five wolves (Derek, Isaac, Erica, Dean, and Darren) chasing five people (Stiles, Cora, Darrel, Laura, and Talia). 

Stiles paused to draw the fog sigil a few times, which delighted, of all people, Talia.

Fog rose to his shoulders. Laura caught his wrist and kept close while they ran. She was much faster, but she kept pace with him. He nearly fell flat on his face couple times until he drew the light sigil on his left palm and used it as a flash light.

“Nice,” Laura said with a fierce grin. “Keep going straight. Be right back.” She took off to the left, disappearing into the fog. 

Stiles heard panting behind him and took off running, little nervous laughs falling from his lips. 

The woods in front of him seemed denser, the panting behind him hungrier. A stab of pain in his head made him wince, but he shook his head, tried to force the memory away.

It wasn’t until the pain had faded that he realized what he’d done. He stopped running and just stood there. He’d shoved away a memory so he could keep playing _tag_. A possible _hint_ about himself. 

_I wouldn’t have remembered it anyway,_ he thought petulantly. 

He lifted his head, then got tackled to the ground, biting his tongue when he landed.

“Ow,” he groaned, flipping over.

Derek stood over him, panting, eyes glowing yellow.

“Derek?” he asked to be sure.

Derek yipped.

“You better _run_ , because I’m it now,” he said, laughing.

Derek coughed and ran for it.

 

Later, Stiles slept fitfully. He dreamed that someone had locked him in a metal box and threw him over the side of a mountain, tumbling and banging into things. He woke gagging, dizzy as if he’d actually gone down.

 

The next morning was Talia and Erica’s turn to make breakfast, so there were donuts and fast food bags all over the kitchen. 

“Stiles, Deaton’s coming over after lunch for some training,” Talia said, leaning over Cora to snag a glazed donut.

“Cool,” he said, swallowing his biscuit. “Thanks.”

She nodded, flicking Darrel’s ear to get him off of Isaac’s back. 

Derek and Laura came in together; Laura looked irritated.

“He should have _asked_ ,” she insisted.

“What?” Stiles asked.

“Dean took Laura’s car to visit Miranda.” Derek grimaced.

“You took it, too!” Laura snapped.

“To take Stiles to the _hospital_ ,” Derek said imploringly. 

Laura rolled her eyes and patted Stiles’s head as she passed. Derek clasped his shoulder, so Stiles kissed his cheek. 

He glanced at Talia after, nervous, but she was settling a dispute over the last sprinkle donut and hadn’t noticed. 

Derek leaned around to get a donut, hopping up on the chair next to Stiles. 

Darren came in wearing ripped jeans and a tank top stained with grease. “Hatty Jones’s tractor is broken again, you know her husband’s too old to be fixing it,” he said to Talia, grabbing a mug for coffee. “Shouldn’t take too long.”

Talia sighed. “They should just replace the thing at this point.”

He rolled his eyes. “Pat would love to, but Hatty will squeeze a penny until Lincoln shouts uncle.”

Talia nodded seriously while Stiles laughed. “You need any help? Cora could join you, or Derek.”

“I can go,” Cora offered. “I haven’t gotten to tinker with anything in a while.” She jumped up, grinning.

“Get changed, then.” Darren bumped up against Laura’s side. “Problem, my oldest offspring?”

She scowled. “Dean took my car.”

Darren nodded and turned his face into her hair.

Stiles didn’t realize he was whispering something until she laughed and relaxed.

Talia turned around. “Dare, don’t tell her to do that!” 

He smiled innocently. “I was trying to cheer her up, not give her tips.”

Laura grinned into her coffee mug.

 

When Dean got back, Laura dropped on him from a second floor window. Talia let the fight last longer than the first. This one ended with Laura sitting on Dean’s chest laughing breathlessly, with Dean snickering and spitting out a mouthful of blood into the gravel.

Laura stood up. “Ask first next time, you asshat.”

“Okay, okay, I will.” He got to his feet slowly, digging gravel out of his arm and shaking it until it healed. “Hey, Stiles.” He jogged up to the steps where Stiles was.

It surprised him when Dean pulled him into an easy hug.

“I wanted you to know I’m not mad at you. And that you’re good for my brother. He’s good for you, too,” he whispered. Then he ran inside to get his own car keys.

Stiles frowned at his shoes, face burning. He smiled at Dean when he passed, though. “Thank you,” he said.

Dean ran his hand over Stiles’s head. “No problem.”

 

Deaton got there just after Stiles and Derek had finished cleaning up lunch. Darren and Cora still hadn’t returned from the Jones’s.

Derek sat on the deck with some grimoires, looking irritated, while Deaton and Stiles practiced some spells. Stiles showed Deaton his fox trick after a time.

“That’s very impressive, Stiles. That particular sigil is very tricky.” Deaton drew one midair, too, his burning red. Three large, red feline animals burst from the sigil. “It’s a physical manifestation of your energy, separate from the energy balls you’ve made. These are almost sentient. A portion of your thoughts and energy.”

The three foxes started chasing the ocelots (were they ocelots?) around the yard. 

“Why are there three? Why not just one? Or four?”

Deaton shrugged. “Three is a good number.” 

After all that enlightenment, Deaton began telling Stiles how to treat a wolfsbane wound in a werewolf.

“It has to be the same kind of wolfsbane that poisoned them,” he added.

“There’s got to be a better way,” Stiles said, frowning. He had a low simmering headache behind his right eye. “What if you can’t find the wolfsbane? What if you don’t _know_ which one poisoned them?”

“This, burning the wolfsbane and using the ashes to purify the wound, is the only way that is _certain_ to work and doesn’t rely on a witch not making mistakes.”

Stiles huffed. “There has to be an easier way. Safer. Quicker.” He would find one.

“It won’t be an issue while you’re here,” Deaton said. “There’s no wolfsbane close to the Hale house, and they all know better than to mess with it.”

Stiles looked toward Derek, who was concentrating on his book and probably hadn’t heard a word of this. He’d like to know how to fix a wolfsbane injury, anyway. Without using the poison itself. He could look it up himself later. 

“Okay.”

Deaton nodded. “I think that’s enough for today. You’ve gotten the hang of things rather well, so at this point it’s mostly practice and experimentation.”

“Oh, okay.” He frowned. “So do you think…we’re not going to be able to break the memory lock?” The idea made something in him feel hollowed.

He heard Derek’s sharp breath behind him and refused to look.

“Just us two? No, I don’t,” Deaton said calmly.

“So you think…with another witch…?”

“Not for sure,” Deaton replied. “It could put you at unnecessary risk for no reason. I will be doing more research into it before we try it.” He smiled a little. “We can’t have another repeat of last time.” 

Stiles shuddered. “Yeah, I’ll avoid that this time, if possible.”

Deaton didn’t speak for a moment. “I’ll see you. Keep practicing.”

Stiles nodded, frowning a little. When Derek came to stand beside him, he reached out to take his hand. “That was weird.”

“Deaton’s always weird,” Derek said instantly. “It’s our turn to cook dinner. Dean’s gonna be out for a few more hours, so Darrel’s gonna help.”

Darrel and Derek helped Stiles figure out the stove. They’d decided to make a huge vat of spaghetti with optional meatballs. Stiles’s job was noodles, while Darrel was on homemade sauce and Derek made the meatballs and garlic bread.

“You have to stir occasionally,” Darrel reminded Stiles.

“Oh, right.” He poked at the contents of the pot tentatively.

“Can you hand me that—yeah, thanks,” Derek said, taking the knife Darrel had handed him.

Stiles felt like he was in the way, but the brothers didn’t seem to mind. Darrel was happy to tell Stiles how to make homemade sauce, and even let him help with the chopping until he got his own finger…of the hand _holding_ the knife. They banned him from sharp utensils and the Hales collectively dissolved into panic when they realized they didn’t have any band aids.

Erica saved the day by unearthing a dusty box of them from Isaac’s human days at the estate.

“It mostly stopped bleeding,” Stiles grumbled while Derek wrapped the cut.

“It was deep.”

“For people who get into knock-down, drag-out fights in the dining room, you guys certainly lose your shit over a little bit of blood or sunburn,” Stiles mused. 

“You don’t heal instantly. Freaks us out,” Darrel said, leaning around Derek’s shoulder to see the band aid.

“You okay?” Laura asked from the doorway, as if she was afraid of blood.

Werewolves. Honestly. Were _bunnies_ , maybe.

“Yep.”

“Good!” Erica said. “Is dinner almost done?”

“Erica,” Laura scolded.

“What? He said he was okay!”

“It’s almost done,” Derek said loudly. “Just waiting on the meatballs.”

Erica groaned and went back to the living room.

“Mom said to leave Dean’s food in a separate container,” Laura said. 

This, of all things, sparked an argument between Darrel and Laura.

Derek rolled his eyes as Laura insisted the lids to the containers were above the sink, and Darrel said those ones were too small.

Stiles grinned, swinging his legs. When he’d gotten the band aids, Derek had lifted Stiles onto the island to examine the wound.

Stiles draped his arms around Derek’s shoulders, resting their foreheads together. “Think they can finish off dinner alone?” he whispered.

Derek laughed. “No,” he whispered back. “But you can escape, since you’re wounded again.” 

Stiles smirked and pecked his mouth lightly. “Never leave a man behind,” he said, winking. He hopped off the counter. “Okay, guys, seriously? They’re Tupperware containers, not priceless jewels.” Stiles laughed at their expressions of mingled offense and amusement.

Derek got a big container, lid and all, out of a cabinet beside the fridge. “Problem solved,” he said solemnly. 

 

Dinner was boisterous, and Stiles loved it. Everyone was cheerful and playful, and the only fights weren’t serious, just spats over garlic bread. 

“Want to watch a movie later?” Derek asked quietly. “I have Netflix on my laptop.”

“Sure,” Stiles whispered, smiling.

“Good. Popcorn?”

“Of course.” He grinned.

Cora, Laura, and Isaac were cleaning up while everyone else started to scatter, either going for dessert or to the living room, when the front door opened.

“Hey,” Laura said. “How was Mira-”

“Mom!” Dean yelled, shoving past her. “Mom, I have to tell you something!”

Laura looked pissed, but everyone paused to watch when Talia came out of the dining room. 

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

Dean swallowed and glanced at the rest of the pack. Then he straightened his shoulders. “Miranda has found at least three Alphas in McAllistor county, seem to be heading for Sunset, or at least around it.” He ducked his head when Talia snarled.

“ _What?_ ” she growled.

He nodded, not quite meeting her eyes. “She’d been keeping an eye on them when they came into Louisiana, but lots of people pass through New Orleans.”

Talia’s eyes were burning red, her fangs resting on her bottom lip. “No one has sent an emissary to request a meeting, an alliance, a pass-through—nothing!” She started pacing, becoming more agitated as she did.

“Mom…” Dean began. “Miranda’s keeping an eye on them. She’ll contact me if they get closer.”

Talia nodded, then froze. “Are they traveling together?” she demanded.

Dean nodded hesitantly, looking confused. “They seem to be.”

Talia’s face drained of color, her eyes going back to brown. She looked frightened and young, almost like Cora.

Stiles glanced worriedly at Derek, who looked just as stunned.

Talia seemed to gather her fury around her like a cloak. “Laura!” she barked.

Laura flinched and stalked forward, her arms full of dishes.

“Derek, take the dishes and finish them,” Talia ordered.

Derek did as told quickly, jogging out of the room. 

Talia looked at Laura and seemed to forget everyone else. “You are the acting Alpha while I’m gone, like usual, and you _are_ Alpha if I die.” 

“Mom-” Laura began.

Talia growled in warning. “If that happens, get _everyone_ out. The whole pack. Go west.”

“California?” Laura asked quietly. The way she said it made Stiles think she meant something else.

Talia nodded. “Tell them what Dean told me.”

“Okay,” Laura whispered. 

“Good. You’re in charge.” Talia went to her room then, leaving Laura with the shell-shocked pack.

“It’s going to be okay,” she said with certainty.

“You don’t know that,” Cora pointed out, crossing her arms. 

Laura’s eyes flashed. One was half-red, half-gold, and the other was full gold. “Yes, I do. Mom’s the most badass Alpha _ever_.” 

“And I’m going with her,” Peter added. “Back up muscle. The Alpha doesn’t get her hands dirty unless necessary, and there are three of them.” 

“What’s going on, Uncle Peter?” Dean asked.

“I don’t know, but something scared my sister, and that hasn’t happened for a long time. Be good, pups.” He passed his hand over Stiles’s head and bumped against his nieces and nephews gently on his way to the door. 

Stiles thought it was his way of giving out hugs.

He went to the library while everyone was distracted.

 

Derek found him an hour later, surrounded by books.

“Find what you were looking for?” he asked carefully.

“No, but I gave myself a headache.” Stiles sighed and rubbed his eyes. “I thought maybe there’d be something, but, really, I don’t even know what to look for.”

Derek nodded. “C’mon. Let’s go watch that movie.”

Stiles got up and went with him to his room. His bed was bigger.

They weren’t alone for long. Cora, Darrel, and Isaac squeezed their way into the bed with them, and Erica, Boyd, and Dean made a place on the floor beside it.

Stiles fell asleep in bed with the four werewolves and dreamed of being chased through dense woods by five pairs of bright red eyes. He was laughing as he ran.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~aaaahhhhhh I couldn't wait much longer to post this so midnight posting it is~~~~

The pack was listless and nervous without Talia (and Peter). Laura called Darrel out of school for the next week when the weekend passed without word from Talia. Darren picked up Darrel’s homework. They told the high school he was in the hospital with severe pneumonia. Dr. Monroe would confirm that, as she was affected by the Alphas, too.

“So…what’s so bad about Alphas passing through?” Stiles asked during lunch.

“It’s more that no one asked. We’re established here, well-known. Another Alpha—let alone three—is just blatant disrespect.” Laura shook her head. “Or trying to start a territory dispute, which could end badly for all the others living here as well as us.” 

“Others?” Stiles asked, frowning.

“The fae clans, naiads. Everyone here we have alliances with. If a new Alpha and their pack moved in, they probably wouldn’t trust old alliances of the former Alpha, so they’d either kill them or run them out,” Darren explained.

“None of them fight back?” He had a hard time imagining Dr. Monroe letting some invading Alpha asshole run her out of town.

“Faeries can defend themselves pretty well, but they wouldn’t want to fight a whole pack of werewolves that just fought some of their own kind,” Dean said. “Willowhaven clan might fight,” he added thoughtfully.

Darren nodded seriously. “They might. But only after we get run out.” He looked nauseated at the thought.

Stiles looked at his plate, his own appetite fleeing. If they got run out of their territory, it would be because Talia was dead, and probably Peter, too.

“It’s gonna be okay,” Laura said. “Mom’s gonna sort it out. They might be heading to New Orleans.”

“And they forgot to tell the local Alpha they’d be passing right through her town?” Cora asked skeptically.

Laura’s eyes narrowed. “Maybe. Maybe they didn’t realize we were in Sunset. Or maybe Mom’s gonna kick their asses all the way to Kentucky and come home with their pelts for the living room.”

Darrel snickered.

Cora rolled her eyes and finished her food.

She was still going to her classes, just like Isaac, since they stuck together—that was the only reason Laura allowed it.

Apparently, when there was an outside threat, the pack closed ranks and holed up until the Alpha said it was safe. 

 

After lunch, Derek and Stiles helped Laura clean up the kitchen. Stiles had volunteered to take Darrel’s place so he could start on his homework. 

“Laura, what’s in California?” Stiles asked.

Laura’s rag slipped from her grip into the suds in the sink. She scowled at him. “Disneyland,” she said sourly.

Derek kept his face downturned when Stiles looked to him for help.

“I just want to know. Why did your mom want you to take the pack there?” 

“It’s a big state, across the country. We’ll need to disappear.” She started viciously scrubbing at the stovetop. 

Stiles scowled. “And who did she tell you to tell about the Alphas?”

“ _No one!_ ” Laura snapped.

Derek’s head jerked up, staring at his sister in shock, but Stiles wasn’t deterred. 

“ _Something_ freaked her out. I want to find out what it was so maybe I can help,” Stiles explained calmly. “I want to look for a solution that doesn’t involve anyone getting hurt.”

Laura snorted and threw the rag on the counter. “Are you kidding? Three Alphas, rolling into town without warning? They’re looking for a fight, Stiles. No way they’re just—oh, damn.” She ran her hands over her face.

Stiles felt a little smug. He’d _at least_ gotten her to admit all was _not_ fine—Talia’s reaction had been far too fearful to be a mistake of manners or protocol. 

Derek made a soft noise and plastered himself against Laura’s back.

She sighed. “Thanks. I can’t let the younger group get too freaked out. Dad likes to hear the reassurance, too.”

“You’re never lying,” Derek said, stepping back. “Or, it never sounds like you are.” 

Laura shrugged. “Hope? Wishful thinking? Take your pick.” 

Derek caught Stiles’s eye, frowning. Stiles shrugged.

 

Later, Derek helped Stiles find books. 

“Alphas…Anubis—wait, is Anubis like, alive? Like real?” Stiles asked, almost dropping his book. “Like, is Anubis something—someone we have to worry about?”

“Probably not,” Derek laughed. “I’m not seeing anything about Alphas in here except that entry _about_ Alphas. It just explains how one becomes an Alpha.”

Stiles looked up. “Cool! How do you do that?”

Derek scoffed. “You’re given the Alpha powers—or you inherit them, like Laura will, you kill an Alpha and take their power, or, in the rarest case of all—and I don’t think anyone believes this one—someone who is genuinely good can ascend to Alpha position. They call that a “true” Alpha. My mom thinks that’s crap.” He shrugged. “She knows plenty of _good_ people who didn’t just randomly become an Alpha.” 

Stiles hummed, flipping through his book.

“I found something called Aigamuxa…ew.” Derek cringed.

“What is it?” Stiles asked eagerly.

“A man-eating monster with eyes in the soles of its feet.” 

“Put a sticky-note there for me,” Stiles said brightly. “I want to read about it later.”

Derek rolled his eyes good-naturedly, but complied. “What are we looking for, exactly?” 

“Anything about Alphas traveling in groups. Wouldn’t they butt heads?” Stiles wondered. He leaned closer to the book in his lap. _Amphishaena_ looked interesting, but obviously wasn’t helpful in this situation.

He bookmarked it for later, though.

 

Derek left without a word at some point. Stiles frowned after him, then went back to the _P_ part of his book. _Petsuchos_ also looked very cool. Again, not helpful.

He was getting more useless information than helpful. He closed the book and looked around the library. He felt…restless. Like if he wasn’t actively doing something to help, he was just taking up space, not to mention being completely useless.

He stood up and looked at the books nearest him. None of the titles seemed to be helpful.

Derek returned. “Cora set up Netflix in the living room. We’re watching Jumanji.” He tipped his head. “Do you want to watch with us?”

Stiles hesitated, glancing at the books he’d already gone through, the books he hadn’t gotten to yet. Such a drastic difference… He shook his head. “I think I’m gonna keep looking.” 

Derek crossed the room with a look of intent on his face that Stiles recognized.

He grabbed Derek’s hips as soon as he was within reach and pulled him close, bumping their noses together gently before kissing him.

Derek allowed this—and _participated_ — for a couple minutes before stepping back. “You don’t have to keep looking. You’re allowed a break.”

Stiles frowned. “I want to help.” He didn’t see why Derek wouldn’t want as many people looking for answers as possible. 

“I know you do. But Alphas _have_ passed through before. Some even without asking. My mom took care of it. If she can’t, we certainly won’t be able to.” 

Stiles scowled. “So you think it’s just—three Alphas _happening_ to pass through without asking…together?”

“No. I’m not stupid. I was there, I saw her face. But my uncle has read all of these books,” he explained. “He would have known what she thought it was if there was anything to find in here.”

“So, what, we just sit on our asses and _wait_ until Laura inherits the full Alpha powers, then run to California?”

Derek flinched.

“Shit. Derek. Fuck. I’m sorry.” He ran his hands over his face. “I’m sorry.”

“This is my family,” Derek said quietly. “I don’t want to sit on my ass and wait for my mother to be murdered. But I know there’s not much for me to do about it.”

Stiles sighed, his shoulders slumping. “I just thought if I could find something helpful…”

“We can keep looking if you want. But we might be better off…” Derek hesitated.

Stiles narrowed his eyes. “Better off what?” 

“Better off looking for a solution to your memory lock problem.” He looked pained, shuffling his feet to subtly put space between them.

Stiles’s shoulders tightened. “Why would we be _better off?_ ” he asked tightly.

“Don’t-” Derek started pleadingly.

“Derek. Why do you think we’d be better off?”

“Because I think it has something to do with you!” Derek blurted.

Stiles flinched this time. “You think I did-?”

“I think you might have something to do with these Alphas,” Derek interrupted quickly. “Maybe they’re hunting you, maybe they caused this. But we won’t know until we find out how to break the memory lock, or until the Alphas get to you.”

“ _If_ it’s me they’re after,” Stiles said bitterly.

Derek sighed and stepped toward him. When he didn’t move away, Derek put his hands on his shoulders. 

“This isn’t me blaming you,” he murmured.

Stiles asked, “Are you sure?” and Derek pulled him in, one hand going to the back of his neck, the other sliding down to his lower back.

He nuzzled his face against Stiles’s hair, pulling him in closer.

Stiles sighed shakily and wrapped his arms around Derek’s waist, pressing his face into his neck.

They stood like that for a few minutes, just breathing. _Sharing scents,_ Stiles thought. It was an oddly comforting notion.

“I’m not blaming you. I want to help you,” Derek mumbled, pressing his lips against Stiles’s temple.

“Thanks,” Stiles muttered. “I just don’t want to cause any _more_ problems for you guys.”

Derek shook his head and rubbed Stiles’s back like he was a baby. “You aren’t. You couldn’t.”

 

Laura found them curled together on the couch, talking, almost an hour later. 

“Thanks for telling us you weren’t gonna watch the movie,” she said, but it was quiet, and with a smile.

“What were you and Dean arguing about?” Derek asked.

Stiles tried not to look too curious; _he_ hadn’t heard them arguing, but he rarely heard anything Derek did.

Laura glanced at Stiles, then shrugged. “Miranda. He seems to think that since Mom is out, I can overrule her decision about having Miranda over.”

Derek’s face went blank, like a TV with its plug pulled. “What’d you say?” he asked carefully.

“Obviously, I said _no_.” She rolled her eyes. “You think I want Mom coming back, smelling Miranda in the house, and mounting my ass above the fireplace?” She scoffed.

Derek nodded slowly.

Laura squinted at him. “What’re you thinking about?” she asked suspiciously.

Derek stiffened slightly.

Stiles draped himself across Derek’s lap. “My luscious lips,” he said in a sultry voice. 

Laura’s face cleared. “Eugh,” she said, sticking her tongue out. “If you’re gonna be like that, I’ll just leave you alone.” She headed for the door. “And remember, my baby brother uses this room to study!” 

Stiles poked Derek’s hip. “What were you _really_ thinking about?”

Derek shook his head. “Not sure yet.”

“How-?” Stiles began with a half-laugh.

“Not sure how to word it yet,” Derek elaborated. “I think I have an idea.”

Stiles grinned. “Oh, yeah? Do share!” 

Derek shook his head again, like a dog trying to get water out of his ears. “Let me think about it some more.”

Stiles sighed gustily and went limp. “Okay.”

 

By dinner, everyone was lethargic and cuddly, except Dean, who kept glaring daggers at Laura. 

Laura seemed to be making a game of seeing how long she could go without acknowledging him.

She lasted until he called her something under his breath that Stiles didn’t hear but it made Cora and Darrel gape, caused Derek, Boyd, and Erica to growl, and had Darren sending Dean to his room. Laura threw a plate at his retreating back.

This started a fight so bad that Derek and Darren had to wade in and pull them apart, as they were half-shifted and had caught the others in the crossfire.

Cora helped get glass out of Isaac’s cheek and Boyd ushered Erica outside before she followed through on her threats to cause Dean lasting physical harm that involved his ability to produce children. 

Derek was holding Dean while Darren spoke to Laura quietly.

Stiles, from his position next to a chair, watched uneasily, but they were already calming.

He would never understand those two.

“I just want her to meet the rest of you guys,” Dean said pleadingly. 

Derek’s face went blank again, his posture shifting slightly. 

“Until Mom says it’s okay, I _can’t_ , Dean,” Laura said, tossing her hair back. There were thin streaks of blood on her face. 

“You mean _won’t_.” 

Her eyes flashed. “Fine. I mean _won’t_.” Her eyes flickered over to Stiles, then away. “It’s not safe right now.”

Dean’s nostrils flared. “But we _know_ it wasn’t Miranda. That wasn’t her mark on Stiles!”

Laura shook her head. “We can’t know that. It might have been.”

“No, Laura. It _wasn’t._ ”

Derek leaped back when Dean ripped his shirt off over his head. He pointed at various points across his chest and stomach.

Stiles stood up to look closer—for science, of course. 

There were faint silvery marks on Dean’s torso that looked like waves on a stormy sea.

“ _These_ are Miranda’s marks,” Dean snapped. “The ones on Stiles were brown!”

Laura’s eyes were wide. “Why are there so many marks on you, Dean?” she asked, horrified. 

Dean’s face reddened. “What do you think, fuzzface? _Magick._ ” 

“Oh my _god_ ,” Cora whispered from behind Stiles, as if this was a new level of gross she’d never wanted to discover.

Laura looked from Dean to Stiles to Darren to Derek, back to Dean. She looked a little lost. “Dean…”

“Whatever. _Move,_ ” Dean snapped, shoving Derek out of his way.

Derek hit the table and stared after him. 

Stiles sighed and looked at Laura. “Maybe if I went-?”

“ _NO!_ ” Four different voices shouted at once.

“Um…okay…”

“We’re keeping you safe,” Darren explained apologetically.

Stiles frowned. “But Dean seems really…”

“Doesn’t matter,” Laura said abruptly, wiping blood off her face. “I’m just done.” She left the room without elaborating.

 

Darren moved the furniture in the living room to the far wall. Cora and Darrel piled blankets and pillows in the middle of the room. 

Stiles found a spot next to Derek and allowed himself to be cuddled, not just by Derek, of course. Darrel leaned his head on Stiles’s outstretched arm. Cora tangled their legs together, and everyone from Laura to Isaac fit themselves around them. Even Darren joined the pile as it got dark outside.

Before long, the warmth and comfort had Stiles blinking sleepily. He was drifting off when he realized he ought to find it strange to sleep like this. The thought made him smile. 

 

Stiles was woken the next morning because Derek rolled over on top of him, blinking wide, dazed eyes as he shielded Stiles from some threat he must have dreamed of. 

“—up! Everyone get up!” Laura was shouting. “Dean, get your pouty ass in here!” she yelled. She nudged Derek’s ribs with her toes. “You’re crushing him.” A throw pillow bounced off the side of her head. Her expression didn’t even _flicker_. 

Stiles would’ve laughed if he could breathe.

Derek grunted and sat up, essentially seating himself in Stiles’s lap. Stiles approved.

He grinned up at Laura.

“Yeah, yeah. Do that later. _Dean!_ ” she practically screamed.

“ _WHAT!_ ” he roared back.

“ _ **ASS FRONT AND CENTER! NOW!**_ ” 

Cora whined and buried her head under Boyd and Erica’s arms.

Dean stumbled into the living room wrapped in a downs comforter, only his toes and tufts of his black hair visible. He grunted at everyone.

“Listen. If Stiles gets murdered because you wanted to see your girlfriend, I hope Mom kicks your ass.”

Stiles squawked indignantly, because he hoped that his untimely demise would warrant more than a single ass kicking. 

“Because Derek and I will also kick your ass, but Mom’s will hurt more,” Laura clarified. “But I woke you up to tell you—fine. Bring Miranda over. Before lunch.”

Darren stood up, looking alarmed. “Laura-”

“She’s right, Dad,” Derek said in a sleep roughened voice. “While Mom’s gone, we might as well have another witch over, someone whose innocence we have proof of, and see if we can get Stiles’s memories back.” 

Stiles gaped at him; Derek didn’t look away from his father.

Darren shook his head. “I agree,” he said quietly. “It’s ultimately Laura’s decision, as acting Alpha, but I don’t like going behind your mother’s back.”

“I don’t either,” Laura said quickly. “But Derek and I agree that this might be the only way to get Stiles’s memories back.”

Stiles looked at Derek inquisitively now, but he still didn’t look back.

Laura inhaled. “And if Mom wants to get mad _after_ the fact, then at least Stiles will know who he is, where he _lives_ , when she kicks him out.”

“Wh—what?” He scrambled up, out from under Derek. “Kicks-?”

Now Derek looked at him sadly. “Mom said you’d have to leave if you wanted to involve another witch. We’ve been trying to find a solution before you got that desperate.”

“Talia was gonna-?” He felt wounded. He could genuinely say he loved Talia. She cared for him. He respected her. She protected him. He felt sick and scared. But he understood. “Cause another witch could endanger you guys, too. If the witch who did this to me found out you were helping me, you might be in danger.” The pack looked aghast, so he smiled weakly at them. “I get it.”

“No,” Darrel said abruptly. “Pack faces danger together. You’re our pack.”

Murmured agreements, even from Laura and Darren.

“Talia’s gonna have a mutiny on her hands,” Boyd muttered, and the tension broke into nervous giggles.

“I’m going to have Deaton come over, too,” Laura said briskly. “See if he’s ready to go. Stiles…” She smiled at him before leaving the room. 

“I’m gonna get dressed,” Dean said, dropping his blanket.

Apparently Dean slept nude.

No one batted a lash, so Stiles chose to also ignore it.

(Dean had a birthmark on the back of his left thigh, not that Stiles was looking.) 

There was a pause while everyone absorbed what had just happened and gave themselves a moment to wake up. 

“Okay, Darrel, Erica, Cora, get started on breakfast,” Darren said, clapping his hands sharply. “Boyd, Isaac, start folding up these blankets. Derek, help me with the furniture. Stiles, you can…you can help with lunch.”

During which, if things went right, Stiles should have all his memories back.

Terror clutched his stomach. “Okay,” he whispered. “I’m going to brush my teeth.” He all but ran from the room. 

He hid in the bathroom. He was ashamed of it, but he did it. He used the toilet, brushed his teeth, showered, dressed, and loitered. He was freaking out.

He wanted to tell everyone to just forget it.

“No, no,” he said quickly, gripping the counter and looking into his own face.

He _wanted_ his memories back, he did. He wanted to know where he lived, if he had any family, what his name was (it _couldn’t_ just be Stiles), where he came from. He was afraid, though. 

He felt like…pack. He was a part of the Hale pack. He loved all of them. He’d been with them for a little over a month but it felt like longer. It felt like he’d always been here.

_That’s probably because I can’t remember being anywhere else,_ he thought, his face in the mirror losing color.

Someone knocked gently on the door. He felt sick. 

“Stiles?” Derek called softly. “You okay?”

Stiles opened the door. “No. I’m not.” His jaw trembled.

Derek nodded and stepped inside, closing the door behind him. He patted Stiles’s shoulder, so Stiles leaned forward and wrapped himself around Derek.

“I don’t want to remember,” he mumbled. 

Derek drew in a shuddering breath. “I don’t think I want you to, either,” he whispered. 

“I have to, though, don’t I?”

Derek sat down with his back against the door. He drew Stiles down, too, snugly between his legs. He wrapped his arms securely around Stiles’s middle and rested his chin on his shoulder. 

“You don’t _have_ to do anything.” 

Stiles snorted. “I don’t have to, but I _have_ to.” He sniffled wetly, cleared his throat. “I was just thinking that…you know…I don’t want to go.”

Derek’s abdominal muscles tightened against Stiles’s back. “Mom won’t make you leave.”

That was another worry, but not the one Stiles had spoken of. He worried that once he remembered his life, he’d just…go back to it. He’d remember his old life and say, _Well, it’s been nice. Thanks!_ His chest hurt at the idea. 

Leave Cora, Darrel, Derek—all the Hales? Boyd, Erica, Isaac?

“Let’s go have breakfast,” Derek said eventually.

Stiles followed him.

 

Everyone ate breakfast quietly, with the air of this being a last meal. Only Dean spoke, and he did so with a desperate sort of optimism. 

“It’ll be okay. Once Stiles has his memories back, Mom will change her mind. It’s going to work out.” His tone was almost pleading. 

Cora and Darrel seemed to be the angriest at him for putting Stiles’s life at risk, as they wouldn’t look at him. They seemed to be plotting some way to convince Talia to let Stiles stay.

Stiles nibbled plain toast and stayed out of it, holding hands with Derek under the table.

 

Deaton arrived at 11:30, looking grimly determined. “You’re right,” he said simply, when Laura tried to hurriedly explain. He went to the back deck.

Stiles followed him and watched him set out a couple bundles of herbs. “What will we need?” he asked, scuffing his toe across the deck.

“That depends on Miranda,” Deaton said. “Her magick may require a boost to help her. She may need a dampener. She may have a better idea of how to approach this, too.” 

Stiles nodded, looking down. “So this is like a test run. See how she does it?”

Deaton replied, “If she has all that she needs, we will do the spell as quickly as possible.”

Stiles nodded again.

When the doorbell chime rang through the open back door, his heart crawled down to hide behind his stomach.

“Let’s go say hello,” Deaton said quietly.

Derek walked with them toward the foyer, where the rest of the pack was watching Dean enthusiastically kissing a woman in the doorway.

Laura snickered and Dean surfaced for air. He looked pleased with himself.

“Guys, this is Miranda Landau. Miranda, this is my pack.”

Miranda had a lot of springy brown ringlets which she’d highlighted blond in some places, with cool umber skin and brown-hazel eyes. Her bangs were fluffy but not curly, like she straightened them.

“Nice to see you again, Mr. Hale. It’s been a while,” Miranda said in a sweet, clear voice.

“Yes, it has. I’m glad you could come,” Darren said with a smile.

“Quite the pack,” she said with a little grin toward Laura. Then she seemed to light up. “Stiles! Hey! I didn’t know you knew the Hales!”

Tension snapped through the room immediately. Everyone seemed to freeze and stared at her. Eyes lit up gold or, in Laura’s case, gold-and-red.

Dean’s face went pasty pale. Deaton’s hands flexed, readying a spell.

Stiles, for his part, felt nothing. Distant, stunned. Blank.

Laura grabbed Miranda by her upper arm and yanked her off balance. “How do you know him?” she demanded over Dean’s weak warning growl.

Miranda’s eyes went wide. “Ow! What’s the matter with you?” she yelped, squirming to get free. 

“Tell me,” Laura snarled. “How do you know Stiles?”

“He came to my new adult witches’ placement program in July!” Miranda snapped. She looked down at Laura’s hand. “Let go of me,” she said coldly. 

Laura’s eyes narrowed, but she released her.

Miranda looked furiously at Stiles, who took a step back. “Why didn’t _you_ tell them how we met?”

Stiles stared at her. When Derek nudged him, he said, “I didn’t know we’d met.”

“ _What?_ ” 

Deaton stepped forward. “Stiles has a memory lock on him. It’s very powerful. It hasn’t weakened since Darren found Stiles, seriously injured, wandering a backroad.”

Miranda’s eyes widened again. “Oh my gods!” she gasped, fumbling with her bag.

“You see why we were shocked when you so casually addressed him,” Deaton explained. 

“Oh my _gods_ ,” she whispered. “He’s been here since July. Oh, gods. I have to—go,” she blurted.

“Why?” Laura demanded sharply.

Stiles watched like it was a TV show. 

“His résumé, his applications—he has an emergency contact number!” Miranda said. She ran a shaking hand through her hair. “Oh, your father’s probably just _sick_.” 

Stiles jolted. He had a _father._

“And Scott-” Miranda groaned.

_Scotty._ Pain lanced through Stiles’s head. He cringed and pressed his fist to his temple. The name disappeared.

“Where’s the emergency contact info?” Laura asked.

“At my office. Not even thirty minutes from here,” Miranda said. “Come with me if you have to.” She looked at Deaton. “I’ll need a couple things from my office if we’re going to break that memory lock, anyway.” 

Deaton nodded.

Stiles didn’t know what to do, so he did nothing. 

“What’s his name?” Derek asked before Miranda could leave.

“Pardon?”

“What’s his real name?” 

Miranda laughed a little. “First name is hard to pronounce. He said he preferred Stiles—after his last name. Stiles Stilinski.”

“Stilinski,” Darrel repeated. “Nice.” He bumped Stiles’s side gently, but Stiles barely felt it—the pain was getting worse the more they talked. 

He hadn’t realized it, but the pack had closed ranks around him.

Laura and Dean went with Miranda to her office. The rest of the pack seemed content to just stand in the foyer, waiting for them and staring at the door, but Darren seemed to realize that Stiles needed to sit, because he herded everyone to the living room.

Stiles sat squashed between Derek and Erica, who squirmed the whole time.

_I have a full name. A father. An emergency contact who is worried about me._

It felt strange. He felt strange.

He hoped he wasn’t going to faint.

When they returned, Stiles flinched. Derek pulled him closer.

“She lectured me the whole way,” Dean complained upon entry.

“You should have asked me immediately,” Miranda snapped, clipping into the room with a file in her hand. “I help witches find jobs, especially young witches,” she explained, setting the file on the coffee table and flipping through it. “Stiles wanted a job where he could use his magick daily. I help find jobs,” she repeated, and yelled, “Aha!” when she found the paper she needed. She whipped out her cell phone and dialed, jabbing the speaker button.

It rang three times. 

“Sheriff Stilinski.” The voice was gruff and exhausted.

Darts of pain shot through Stiles’s head. 

“Hello, Sheriff. My name is Miranda Landau. I’m calling about your son.”

A sharp inhale stopped the rest of her words. “You have him? You know where my boy is?”

“Yes, sir. He has…he has amnesia, but I recognized him from my placement program,” she explained quickly. 

“Placement…? You’re the witch he was meeting in Louisiana.”

Miranda looked startled, but her voice was composed. “Yes, sir.”

“Amnesia? What happened to him?” The question shot out like a bullet of accusation.

“From what I’ve gathered, there was a car accident. We believe that someone attacked him.”

Excited voices burst from the other end of the phone. The sheriff shouted, “Quiet!” then, lower, “What’s the address? I want to speak to him.”

Miranda gave him the address, then gestured Stiles forward. 

Stiles crept off the couch hesitantly. “H-hello?” His voice was shaking. 

Silence from the phone, then a shuddering gasp. “Stiles. God, Stiles, I thought you were dead.”

Cheers and questions erupted from the phone.

“Be quiet,” a male voice said, warm but firm. “Stiles? You there?”

“I…I don’t know—I don’t know who you are,” he whispered.

“That’s okay, kiddo,” the sheriff said wetly.

“We’re coming,” the other man said in a fierce voice. “The whole pack is coming to get you.” 

Stiles ears filled with buzzing. 

He didn’t understand. He felt sick. _Whole pack?_

Derek lowered him to the couch before he fell.

“Pack?” he asked, voice breaking.

Derek nodded tersely. 

Miranda kept speaking to the men on the phone.

Stiles leaned his head on Derek’s shoulder and closed his eyes.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woowoooo. I'll add more character tags after some people have read this chapter. ^^

It was dark outside when Miranda and Deaton took Stiles to the backyard. Derek waited on the porch with his father, Dean, and Laura. He wanted to be down there holding Stiles’s hand, but Miranda and Deaton had warned them that the Stiles who remembered being attacked may react violently upon waking.

That was how Miranda described it. _Waking._ As if the Stiles who they knew wasn’t the _real_ Stiles, a substitute while Stiles-with-memories was sleeping, waiting to come back. 

Derek hoped…he just didn’t want Stiles to _leave_. 

_He has a pack,_ he thought, his heart aching. _He’s our pack, too._

Stiles still reeked of fear, nerves, and confusion. 

“Dad,” Cora said from the kitchen. “Why can’t we come outside?” Her voice sounded high and anxious, almost a whine. 

“Because they think he might get overwhelmed,” Darren said quietly. “You can watch from the window.” 

Miranda had told them she’d gotten a lot of practice with memory locks in June. “None were this powerful, though,” she’d admitted.

Apparently it had become something of a trend among college-age witches to put memory locks on people as pranks. When they realized they couldn’t get the locks _off_ , they ran to Miranda, who brought down her wrath upon them. 

Derek was torn. He hoped it worked. Stiles’s father had sounded so worried, so scared. He couldn’t imagine hearing his own father’s voice like that. 

He hoped it wouldn’t work. Stiles would leave once his memory was back. Go off with this strange pack.

“Calm down,” Dean whispered, setting a hand on the back of Derek’s neck. 

He’d gotten tense, tiny growls escaping between his teeth.

He took a deep breath and looked toward the three in the yard.

Miranda and Deaton stood on either side of Stiles, who looked terrified, shoulders tensed and curled in, fingers tapping out a nervous beat against his thighs.

“This won’t hurt as much as when Alan did it alone,” Miranda said.

“As much,” Stiles muttered.

Miranda smiled. “The feverfew I gave you should gentle the headache when it comes.” She sighed. “Well, whenever you’re ready.” She lifted her hands. 

She and Deaton had coated their palms with some gray-brown, herbal-scented paste that Miranda said helped “unknot” the memories, whatever _that_ meant. 

Derek crossed his arms. 

Stiles’s eyes met his, wide and full of nerves.

Derek smiled at him. It felt horribly fake, but Stiles’s shoulders loosened a little. 

“He’s scared,” Laura murmured, sounding anxious. 

Darrel and Cora let out low whines from inside. Erica let out a little growl. Darren went in to calm them down. 

“Okay,” Stiles said, swallowing. “I’m ready.”

Deaton drew a line across Stiles’s forehead with the paste while Miranda dotted his temples. Their hands started glowing with energy under the paste, dimly. Miranda’s energy wasn’t as bright as Stiles’s or as red as Deaton’s. Hers was like effervescent liquid shadow.

They each lifted one hand and held it close to Stiles’s head, the same way Deaton had when they first tried to get his memories back. 

Derek rocked forward on the balls of his feet, curling his hands into fists. 

Stiles’s eyes fell closed. Miranda murmured that it was working, and Deaton nodded. Derek didn’t look away from Stiles’s tense, pale face. 

The scent of panic soured the air as Stiles’s breath hitched. He started trembling, not nearly as bad as last time. He gasped, and tears began rolling down his cheeks. 

Miranda glanced at Deaton, who nodded. At the same time, their hands started glowing brighter. 

Stiles jerked and shouted in pain.

Dean and Laura both had hold of Derek, keeping him back. 

Something happened. Stiles’s eyes flew open, full white. His body went rigid. 

“Close your eyes,” Miranda instructed. 

He obeyed, and then…

Derek saw a change. His posture shifted. The way he was holding himself was different. He was different. 

 

**Pt. 2**

_“Yes, Scott, I swear I’m already on my back.” Stiles shook his head, laughing._

_“_ You said that two hours ago! _” Scott whined through the phone._

_Stiles lifted his hand in thanks when a little red car let him over._

_“You knew how long this could take. From what I hear, three days is nothing.” He glanced at the phone on his lap, rolling his eyes when Scott huffed._

_He was in Louisiana for a placement program he’d been looking forward to for months. He was even still wearing the_ “Hi, my name is _Stiles” sticker. The pack was anxious for him to be back, though._

_“I_ was _trying to leave two hours ago. You haven’t met Miranda Landau, man. You leave when she says you leave. I had to pack up my hotel at the speed of light so I didn’t get charged for another night. I was hoping to get on the road before dark, but it’s dark anyway. Think it’s gonna storm.” He leaned forward to peer out of the top of the windshield and swore under his breath._

_“_ Well, call me when you stop for gas, _” Scott said petulantly._

_“Will do, Scotty. Talk to you later.”_

_Scott hung up and Stiles let his phone disconnect itself. He looked up anxiously at the sky. It really did look like the bottom was about to drop out._

_He focused on the road, gnawing on his lips._

_The blaring of a horn was the only warning he got before something slammed into the driver’s side of the Jeep, throwing him hard against his seatbelt._

_They slammed into the guardrail, Stiles’s head cracking against his steering wheel._

_He thought it was over, sitting up and moaning, until he heard an ominous groan from his right. He turned his head dazedly. The Jeep was hanging over the guardrail, nearly over it and into the trees._

_Stiles looked toward the other car, trying to speak through the mouthful of blood._

_The man in the driver’s seat was slumped over, but the man in the passenger’s seat was sheet white, staring at Stiles. He started shouting, and something slammed into Stiles from behind, just before he had the strangest sensation of falling._

_The Jeep was on its side. Rain poured in from a broken window. Someone stood over him, inside the Jeep, chanting. She was wearing a hooded robe._

_“No-” he groaned._

_She bent and poured something hot and thick down his throat._

_He choked and sputtered, trying to spit it out, but she sealed his mouth shut until he swallowed._

_“I’m sorry,” she whispered._

_“I’ll kill you,” he rasped, but his body felt broken. He couldn’t move._

_“You won’t remember me.”_

_“We’ll kill you,” he said in a stronger voice. “Don’t!” he yelled, but she’d already completed her spell._

Stiles inhaled, eyes flying open. Energy crackled up his arms. Lightning flashed across the sky. “ _ **DEUCALION!**_ ” he roared. He brought his hand up; lightning struck against the energy in his palm. His voice boomed across the crackle of the energy. “ **You better run! We’re coming for you.** ” The lightning withdrew to the sky. 

Rain started to fall. A female voice boomed back, traveling through the rain. “ **You don’t want to fight us, Stilinski. We spared your life once.** ”

From beside him, Miranda swore softly. 

“They have a witch,” he muttered. He looked at the Hales on the deck, at Dean and Laura’s tight expressions, at Derek’s pale, stunned face.

He swallowed and looked at Deaton and Miranda. “Someone needs to call Talia, get her and Peter back here. They don’t know what they’re dealing with.” He looked around. “Deaton, I’m going to ward the house. I’ll need to borrow some of the things in your bag.”

Deaton, looking bemused, nodded and led Stiles to the deck. 

Stiles stopped in front of Derek, who looked wary and tense. He held out a hand.

Derek cautiously shook it, slightly confused.

“My name is Stiles Stilinski. I’m 22-years-old. I live in a town called Beacon Hills, in California.” 

Behind Derek, Laura flinched. 

“I’m an emissary to a true Alpha named Scott McCall.” 

Derek nodded, gaze shifting off like he couldn’t keep eye contact. 

“Derek,” Stiles said softly. “I don’t want things to change between us, but I understand they’ll have to. I know things will be different. Just…give me time to protect your house. Make sure they can’t find you and your family.” 

Derek nodded again.

Stiles would have to make do with that. He nodded back and turned to Miranda.

“Do you know what time we called my dad?”

“About noon. They should be here soon. Scott called me to update. They got on a 12:30 flight—that’d be about 2:30 here—and it’s about a four hour flight.”

“Good. I’ll be finished warding by then. Who’s to call Talia?” He looked around the deck.

“Dad is,” Dean said finally.

“Okay.” Stiles turned to Deaton. “I need acacia, althea, and heliotrope.”

Deaton pulled bundles of herbs out of his bag, lining them up across the table. He placed a knife beside them.

“Miranda, can I use-”

She’d already handed him her mortar and pestle. 

He squashed the herbs together, sending magick down the pestle until the paste he made turned a dull red. He grabbed the knife and sliced open the tip of his finger, dripping blood into the mixture.

“The blood makes it near impossible for anyone but me to remove it,” Stiles explained when the werewolves stepped forward, reacting to the scent of blood with their usual alarm. He smiled a little to himself.

“Blood magick is generally frowned upon, but sigils are different,” Miranda said carefully.

Stiles picked up the mortar and went to the nearest part of the house. He dipped his finger into the paste and started drawing a line of warding sigils. Protection, hiding, invisibility. He wasn’t able to lock down the house as he’d done with Beacon Hills, but this would do for the moment until Scott and the rest arrived. 

Stiles’s fingers fumbled, smearing the paste. He took a deep breath and kept drawing.

He missed Scott, and the pack. He’d essentially abandoned them for another pack, for over a _month_.

The flood of memories—Scott, Lydia, Kira, Allison, Liam, Danny, Jackson, his _father_ , their faces, their time together, laughing, crying, fighting, bleeding—had been painful, but tinged with relief. He was back. They were back. He had them back. It had hurt to think he’d forgotten them, the feeling of having no pack, no family. It would haunt him. He hadn’t felt so cut off from them in years.

He also hadn’t felt so relaxed in years, either. The Nemeton, combined with Scott’s ascension to Alpha at age 17, put their lives under constant threat. 

He stood and went to another part of the house, drawing the same sigils there. He did it all over until he could feel the magick settling over the entire estate.

“Talia and Peter are back,” Deaton said quietly.

The Hales were already rushing toward the door. Derek hesitated until Stiles reached him. Then he went inside.

“He hasn’t said anything,” Stiles muttered to Miranda.

She _tsk_ ed. “He will.”

He shook his head and walked in behind Derek. He felt off balance. He knew this house, but he’d never truly been _himself_ here. Not 22-year-old him. He’d felt as he had at age sixteen, before Scott had been bitten, before he’d discovered his magick. 

Laura, Darren, and Talia were shouting at each other when he walked into the kitchen. Dean looked cornered, cowering behind Laura. 

“—completely disregarded my orders!” Talia roared, and everyone went silent.

Stiles stepped forward. “Alpha Hale, under the circumstances, your orders are the least of our concerns.”

Her brows rose. “‘Alpha Hale’?” she repeated in the same tone she’d once said “‘Uh, Stiles’?”.

Stiles said, “As Alpha McCall’s emissary, I’d like to formally request an emergency pack alliance, owing to the situation at hand.” 

“What is the situation?” she asked cautiously.

“Deucalion,” he said, and she winced. “He’s the Alpha of an Alpha pack. And you knew that,” he said slowly.

Talia looked afraid. “I suspected, when Dean said three of them were traveling together.”

“There are five of them. Deucalion, Kali, Ennis, Aiden, and Ethan. And now they have a witch. I think Deucalion made her his emissary.”

Talia’s eyes bugged. “And you believe she locked your memories?” 

“She did.” He looked at her. “My Alpha, and my pack, are on their way to help with the Alpha pack. I need to know if they are welcome in your territory, Alpha Hale.”

“Of course. Yes. They’re your pack.” She ran her hand through her hair. “I need an explanation,” she admitted, glancing toward Miranda.

“My pack is from Beacon Hills, California.”

She flinched, just like Laura had. Darren’s shoulders stiffened. 

“You’ve been there, then,” Stiles said dryly, deciding to address that later. “Deucalion came to check out the Nemeton, and the true Alpha—my Alpha. He wanted Scott to join his pack, and he attacked when Scott refused. After we ran them out, I locked down the town.” He shrugged when Miranda and Deaton stared at him. “Between me, Scott, and the Nemeton, it wasn’t that hard.” He swallowed. “Deucalion hates me the most, and I was the only one in Scott’s pack to leave Beacon Hills’ protection.”

Peter spoke up thoughtfully. “Why does Deucalion hate you the most?”

Stiles smirked. “I hurt him. And he thinks I have too much sway with Scott for an emissary.”

“How is your relationship with Alpha McCall?” Peter asked.

“He’s my brother,” Stiles said fiercely. “I’d do anything for him.”

Peter nodded.

“How much danger are we in?” Darren asked.

“A lot. Think Voldemort danger, plus his Death Eaters are super strong and can heal.” 

A slight, nervous chuckle from the younger crowd.

Stiles looked at Talia. “How do you know about Beacon Hills?”

She lifted her chin. “Who said I do?”

“This is _important._ They’re coming to kill me, kill all of us. At best, they might try to recruit Laura by talking her into killing all of you for Alpha powers.” 

The pack flinched together. Laura looked horrified. 

Talia sighed. “We lived in Beacon Hills when Laura and Dean were babies. The Nemeton was activated by some druids while we were there, and began to attract attention from others. It was starting to get unsafe, so we moved right after Derek was born. We used to go back every few years. We keep a house out in the preserve there.” She shook her head. “You can’t just _leave_ something that powerful unprotected. You can barely leave it at all. It…draws you.” She pushed at her hair. “Darren, Peter, and I would go, leave the kids with Darren’s parents. We took Laura one year, and discovered a hunter family there. They’d been drawn by the unusually high supernatural activity.”

“What happened?” Stiles asked stiffly. He was sure he knew who she was talking about.

“Well, they weren’t exactly a welcoming party, but it was just the father, and his young daughter at that point. The mother and aunt had been killed by some wolves gone feral. We helped him track them down and…take care of them. After that, the Argents remained our allies.”

_Argents._ “The daughter is part of my pack,” Stiles said. “Her name is Allison.”

Talia nodded. “When will your pack arrive?”

“Soon. They don’t know about the Alpha pack yet. Well, Scott and Danny might,” he admitted. “Danny would have told Scott if he sensed it.” 

“What are we going to do?” Peter asked. “Is there a plan?”

“I’m going to find their emissary, kill her, and hope we can get to the Alpha pack before they get to us. There are more of us than we had in California.”

Before anyone reacted, the doorbell chimed twice in quick succession. 

Stiles’s heart leapt, and his stomach sank at the same time.

He was trembling as everyone followed him to the door. He cast a threat-detection spell, but he could feel his pack, sense them just beyond the door.

He yanked it open when he felt no threat. His breath left him at the sight.

His pack was crowded on the cement porch, trying to see in and around each other, none of them carrying luggage, most of them smiling. Only Scott and Danny looked tense, meaning they’d sensed the threat. 

All nine of them were there. 

“Stiles,” his father croaked. 

Though they were all straining forward, Scott held the pack away so that Stiles and his father could grab each other in fierce hugs.

Nathan kept saying Stiles’s name, rocking them back and forth in place the way he’d done when Stiles’s mother had died.

“I’m okay, Dad,” he whispered, gripping the back of his father’s shirt. He closed his eyes and pressed his face into his shoulder.

“We have a problem,” he finally said, extracting himself. 

Kira bolted forward to hug him, as if unable to resist, and the rest of the pack followed her example, crowding around and pressing in on him. Kisses pressed all over his face, hands and arms covered every inch of him.

“I missed you, too, guys. But we have a problem. There’s a _problem!_ ”

“I thought you had amnesia,” Lydia said, extracting herself from the group hug first. “You remember us.”

He nodded, patting Liam’s back. “I remember everything now. We have to talk.” He slipped out of Allison’s grip, smiling at her, and took a breath. “Deucalion’s here. He has an emissary now. She’s the one that did this to me.”

“They found you,” Scott said grimly. 

“I think the emissary caused some people to crash into me on my way home, then she put a memory lock on me.” Stiles saw Talia step forward. “Right. Alpha Hale, this is Alpha McCall. Scott, this is Alpha Hale.”

Scott winced and said, “Call me Scott,” at the same time she said, “Call me Talia.” Scott grinned, and Talia’s expression softened a bit.

“Talia has agreed on an alliance for the situation. We haven’t discussed formal terms or anything, but I figure that can wait. I warded the house, but that won’t hold forever.” He ran his hands through his hair. It had been lying flat for some time now—a by-product of his nervous habits being locked away with the memories that caused them, he guessed. 

Scott nodded. “Is there a hotel nearby we can set up camp in?”

“Oh, you’re staying here.” Talia shook her head to ward off protests. “It’s standard with alliances. A ‘my den is your den’ sort of thing. And you are welcome here, standard or not.” 

“Well, we thank you. And…” Scott looked younger suddenly. “We can never repay you for taking Stiles in, for protecting him. He’s important to us.”

Stiles flushed red.

“He’s important to us, too,” Cora said, and everyone of Stiles’s pack turned to look at her.

Talia shot her a sharp look. “My youngest daughter, Cora,” she said dryly.

That started the introductions. Derek hung back a bit, looking a little overwhelmed. Stiles slipped out from under his father’s arm to go talk to him.

“Are you alright?” he asked quietly.

Derek nodded, eyes locking on Stiles’s face like he was trying to see the Stiles he’d come to know.

Stiles wanted to tell him it was useless. That _that_ Stiles had been locked away the moment Scott had gotten attacked in high school. 

He wanted to beg Derek to still lov—like him. He was still _Stiles_. He just wasn’t blank-slate Stiles.

“Just…there’s a lot of people. Your pack only has three ’wolves in it,” he pointed out quietly. 

Stiles laughed. “We have three wolves, two hunters, a banshee, a kitsune, an unpracticed clairvoyant, a nurse, and a sheriff. And me.” 

“Unpracticed!” Danny protested from behind him.

“It’s true!” Stiles shot back.

 

They ate pizza together, both packs. It was crowded and noisy and Stiles loved it. Jackson nearly gave Stiles cardiac arrest by offering to pay for the pizza, but Talia insisted and thanked him. Lydia smacked Stiles’s arm when he asked if she’d drugged Jackson for the plane ride.

Scott was speaking to Deaton earnestly about his aspirations to be a vet, and Deaton looked amused. Talia, Chris, Darren, and Nathan were speaking together off in a corner (probably about Stiles, by the glances he kept getting from all four of them).

Stiles sat with Derek against the wall, their knees curled up and plates balanced on top of them. Liam and Darrel were to Stiles’s right, Liam telling Darrel about the time Stiles had broken his ankle two years previously. 

“I’m talking, _catapulted_. He just _flew_ down the stairs,” Liam was saying.

Darrel was red faced with laughter, and Stiles chuckled, too.

He remembered that, stepping on his own foot and launching himself down the stairs, landing awkwardly on his bent ankle. He’d been laid up for weeks. 

“Mom’s stressed,” Derek said quietly. “She thinks the Alpha pack might try to attack us tonight.” 

“They won’t find us tonight. Deaton and Miranda added protective spells of their own, and I’m going to check my wards every few hours. I can keep us all safe,” he added. “I know I can.”

Derek looked at him for a long moment. “We can all protect each other.” Then, “How did you hurt Deucalion so badly that he’s hunting you like this?”

Stiles laughed. He couldn’t help himself. He had a twisted sense of humor. “I stabbed him with a dagger coated with wolfsbane. He healed, of course, found the type of wolfsbane I’d used, but the fact that I, a lowly witch, managed to hurt him, managed to leave a scar on him, burned his ass.” He smirked. “See if you can spot it when we fight him.”

Derek started to speak, but paused when Lydia stepped in front of them.

“I checked the wards,” she said. “Pretty good. Almost as good as the ones on the town edges. Told you it wasn’t all the Nemeton.” She looked toward Derek, flicking her gaze over his face. “Nice.” She went back by Jackson, who was talking to Laura and looking slightly cowed.

“ _Nice_?” Derek repeated, his ears turning pink.

Stiles shrugged. “You’re very attractive. Plus, she was probably telling me to be nice,” he said as he realized it.

Danny sat in front of them and gave them each more pizza. “So. Stiles.” He squinted at Stiles’s face, the air around him.

Stiles held still, let Danny gather all the information he could.

Danny glanced toward Derek, then back to Stiles. He smirked a little, but he looked tense. “You didn’t remember _any_ of us, man,” he said. His eyes kept flicking toward Derek. He finally asked, “Will you be taking over as Alpha for your mother?” 

Derek looked startled. “No, that’s my big sister, Laura.” 

Danny nodded. “Sorry. For a second your eyes looked red.” He laughed awkwardly.

Derek flashed his eyes. “Nope. Gold.”

“Be right back,” Stiles said abruptly, getting up.

Miranda cocked her head but followed him when he gestured at her.

“I’m going to need herbs for tomorrow. Sigil ink.”

She nodded. “I can get it. I’m helping,” she added fiercely. “I know almost every witch in Louisiana. I want to see who this emissary is.”

“Thanks,” he said, relieved. Miranda was a powerful ally.

“But I’ll need some muscle to come with me to my office. I’ve heard of this Alpha pack,” she said with a frown.

Stiles waved at Allison, who grabbed her father, Chris, on the way over. “Can you guys go with Miranda to her office? We’re going to need more magickal oomph.” 

“Sure. We’ve got weapons.” Allison flashed a dimpled grin at Miranda.

“How’d you get them on a plane?” Stiles asked, impressed.

“Someone owed us a favor. He owns a private plane. He got us here,” Chris said smugly. “No questions asked.” 

“I’m going, too,’ Dean said from behind Miranda.

Chris looked wary.

“He’s got super healing, Chris,” Stiles said sharply. “And he helped me wash my damn hair for two weeks. He’s safe.” 

Chris shrugged, looking irritated. “Fine. Let’s go then.”

“Weapons are in our rental car,” Allison said, and let Dean lead the way out. 

Stiles sat with Derek again. He sighed in relief when Derek cautiously put his arm around his shoulders.

 

Everyone was ready for bed—or at least rest—by the time Miranda and the others got back. 

Jackson and Lydia took a guest room down the hall from Stiles’s room, and Chris took another. Everyone else piled into Stiles’s room. Nathan, Scott, and Kira curled on the bed around Stiles, while Allison, Liam, and Danny made beds on the floor with cushions Darren had brought them.

Stiles was answering questions in a whisper. Mostly it was just _You’re sure you’re fully healed?_ and _How do you feel?_

“You smell like them,” Scott said quietly.

“You’re _connected_ to all of them,” Danny said.

Liam whined softly.

Stiles didn’t know how to answer. He couldn’t. _I love them. You’re still my pack, but now they are too. How am I supposed to leave them? How could I stay?_

“We’ll talk about it later. We need rest now,” Scott said. 

He proceeded to fall to sleep like his plug and been pulled.

Stiles counted to one hundred, and smiled when he heard Liam’s tell-tale sleep snuffling. Danny was next, muttering about red eyes and guns. Allison snored like a chainsaw when she fell asleep stressed, and didn’t disappoint. Kira let out little grunts on every exhale.

“Dad?”

“Yes, son?” he replied immediately. 

“I hope you haven’t been eating a bunch of junk food just because I was missing. The stress and the curly fries could have killed you!” he hissed, but Nathan was laughing and relaxing, and that’s what he’d wanted.

Ten minutes later, and he was sleeping, too, snoring softly.

Stiles waited another ten minutes before slipping out of the bed, then the room. He went to the second floor.

Derek’s bedroom door was open, a small desk lamp shining into the hall.

“Can I come in?” he whispered, stopping just outside the door.

Derek nodded. He was sitting at the edge of his bed, hands curled against the blanket.

Stiles stepped into the room. “Can I close the door?”

Derek nodded again. 

He closed the door. “You don’t like me this way.” It wasn’t a question.

Derek’s head snapped up. “I don’t _know you_ this way,” he said. He stood up and crossed the room. “You’re different.”

Stiles looked down, hands clenching. “I wasn’t always like _this_. I was the way I was before. Things have…happened. I just remember it now. The things that made me like this.”

Derek said, quietly, “Tell me.”

“What?”

He stepped closer and set his hands lightly on Stiles’s shoulders. “Tell me what made you like this.”

When Stiles swayed forward slightly, Derek did the same, kissing him softly. His hands slid off Stiles’s shoulders to his waist, bunching his shirt up.

_Oh, I’m going to miss you so much,_ he thought, screwing his eyes shut tighter.

“Tell me,” Derek gasped into his mouth. His fingers stroked over a scar on Stiles’s ribs. “Tell me about these. Now that you can. I want to know about all of them.” He stepped back, pulling Stiles with him.

“Okay.” Stiles took his shirt off, then, with a glance toward Derek, his jeans. 

Derek went to the bed and sat up against the headboard. “Come here. Show me.” 

Stiles joined him on the bed. “Let’s start near the top.” He took Derek’s hand and rested it against the thick scar on the top of his shoulder. “This is from a vampire. Deaton was right about that. She was sick and didn’t realize she was attacking people. Scott killed her after she got me. I was in the hospital for a while.”

Stiles moved his hand down a little to a neat surgical scar on the same shoulder. “Full moon. Liam got poisoned with wolfsbane that made him hallucinate. He clamped his jaw on my shoulder. He tore the rotator cuff to shreds. I had to have it replaced. Metal and plastic,” he said with a shrug. “ _This_ one is from a kitchen knife. Sleepwalking curse, let me tell you…”

He told Derek about every one of his scars, the story behind each one, even the ones that had simple, human stories.

They were up until 4 AM talking.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a bit of blood in this chapter and such--making it my favorite chapter, lol. I love fight scenes! :D Please enjoy and THANK YOU SO MUCH TO EVERYONE WHO COMMENTED AND KUDOS'D! It makes me so happy. <3  
>  ***Realizes a loooong time after posting that she spelled singeing wrong*dies until has time to fix it* Why didn't anyone tELL ME**

Talia, Isaac, Scott, and Chris were making breakfast when Stiles and Derek went down. Liam was helping, though he had no particular skill in the kitchen.

“We’ve been cooking for hours,” Scott said when Stiles spotted the growing supply of finished food on the counters.

“I see that.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” Isaac said with a grimace. “But there’s plenty of coffee.”

Stiles had two cups. Derek had three. The rest of the packs began to trickle in and get to work. Kira optimistically offered to set the table, but Talia told her it would be more practical to just set out plates for everyone where there was space.

Nathan, Darrel, and Darren helped Kira, getting out silverware, cups, and napkins.

The others came in and loaded up plates, then went to the dining room.

When Scott and Talia had gotten plates, Stiles and Derek got some, too, and went to the dining room where everyone was gathered again, split into little groups.

Isaac and Scott seemed to be bonding using puppy dog eyes and bacon. Everyone was mingling except Lydia and Danny.

Stiles nodded toward them, so Derek followed him to their corner.

“Two psychics hiding out in a corner looking grim and nervous,” Stiles said. “Can’t be a good sign.”

Lydia said, “I’m not a psychic.” She shrugged. “But no one is going to die.” A look of fear crossed her face. “I don’t think anyone is going to die. Things are…cluttered.”

Derek, with some confusion, looked around the dining room.

“She meant there are so many energies bouncing around the estate, so much magickal interference, that she can’t pinpoint what’s making her anxious,” Stiles explained, touching his arm.

“There’s gonna be death,” Danny said flatly. “Probably not ours, but there will be.” He looked at Derek, then back at Stiles. “Are you _sure_ he’s not the Alpha heir?”

“Definitely,” Stiles said, but he was worried. He knew it wasn’t a good sign if the psychics were nervous.

Derek put an arm around his waist and pulled him closer. Things had relaxed between them again, after talking all night. Derek slid his nose across Stiles’s jaw. Well, talking _most_ of the night.

During the after-breakfast clean-up, Allison and Chris brought in a duffle bag full of weapons and upturned it on the table. He set one gun back in the bag, out of reach.

“Anyone who knows how to use any of these, step forward,” Chris instructed.

Lydia, Nathan, Danny, Kira, Peter, and Miranda stepped forward.

The McCall pack knew how to use them—Chris and Allison had trained them—but most didn’t need or couldn’t use a wolfsbane gun. Plus, there just weren’t enough weapons for everyone.

Dean looked shocked when Miranda lifted a sawed off shotgun and examined it expertly.

“What?” she demanded. “My interests are many and varied.” She winked. “But you knew that.”

Stiles laughed.

“Peter,” Talia burst out. “You’ve never used a _gun_.”

“Lies,” he said mildly. “How did you say this got here on a plane?” he asked, tracing a finger over a pistol.

Chris grinned. “Friends in high places.”

“Uh-huh…” Peter plucked an assault rifle out of the duffle bag. “And where did you get...this?”

“Friends in low places.”

Peter chuckled.

Chris smirked and turned to Allison. “I didn’t bring wolfsbane ammo for the rifle,” he said. “I didn’t pack it.”

She shrugged. “It’ll slow them down if we need to. Plus, Ennis hates guns,” she added with a sweet smile.

Stiles laughed again at the memory.

Allison had unloaded a rifle into Ennis’s ass in the last fight, _literally_ , while he’d chased Kira and Danny.

“Stiles,” Scott said quietly, pulling him slightly out of the dining room. “I brought your knife. I thought you might need it.” He pulled it out of the side of his boot.

“Thanks, man.” Stiles’s knife was special to him. It had been, at various points since he’d gotten it, coated in wolfsbane, dragon blood, and kanima venom, had sigils carved into the handle, and had been used in tons of sigil work. It was his favorite tool.

He would sacrifice it if it meant breaking the blade off in Deucalion’s brain.

Scott nodded, handing it over. “We brought some of your clothes, too. You seem to have some,” he added with a grin, “but just in case.”

“Yeah, the Hales bought me stuff.” He ran his hand over his face. “They did a lot for me.” He looked into the dining room where they were mixing with his pack.

Cora was listening to Kira, who was animatedly describing lacrosse to her. Talia was talking to Chris, almost drawing a picture with her hands.

“I know,” Scott said easily. He seemed sad, but relaxed, following Stiles’s gaze. “They took you in, made you pack.”

Stiles nodded, but he couldn’t find his voice, couldn’t look away from where Liam was playfully poking at Darrel’s plate whenever he wasn’t paying attention, from where his father was nodding to whatever Darren was saying.

Scott continued, “And then you remembered your pack, and now you’re confused.” He took a deep breath, waited until Stiles looked at him. “So I wanted to let you know that whatever you decide, you’re still pack, still my brother.”

“I can’t abandon you guys,” Stiles croaked. “I’m your emissary.” He shook his head, swiped his wrist under his nose. “You guys are my family.”

Scott shrugged. “It’s always gonna be your choice, bro.” He reached out and started to give Stiles a hug, then hesitated, smiling sadly.

“Jerk,” Stiles muttered, grabbing him around the shoulders and hugging him tightly.

“It’s gonna be okay,” Scott said quietly. “It’s all going to work out.”

Stiles nodded and cleared his throat, stepping back. “I’ll think about it, after we deal with Deucalion.”

“And by deal with, you mean…”

“Kill. We can’t let this threat hang over our heads anymore. Now we’ve got back up, so we should use it to our advantage. Plus, we’ve brought the Hales into it now,” he added bitterly. “ _I’ve_ brought the Hales into it. So they’re in danger if we don’t end it, too.”

Scott held up his hands. “I wasn’t arguing. Just clarifying.”

Scott was hesitant to kill. Stiles was, too, but less so if people he loved were in danger, or, yes, even himself.

Stiles nodded. “Just so we’re clear, then.”

Scott smiled. “I’m gonna get some leftover bacon before these hyenas get it all,” he said, raising his voice near the end to call after Laura, who shot him a grin over her shoulder as she ran to the kitchen.

Stiles put his hands in his pockets, leaning against the doorframe, watching the two packs. He stood on tiptoe, scanning the faces.

Derek put a hand on Stiles’s shoulder, startling him.

“You’re not as subtle as you think you are,” he said to hide his rabbiting heart, turning toward Derek.

He lifted his brow.

“I’m onto you,” Stiles said, shaking his finger at him. “Whenever you want a kiss, you pat or grab my shoulder. Kiss me first this time,” he ordered, and Derek did.

They broke apart only because Danny threw toast at Stiles’s head and told him to start getting ready.

Stiles went to the guest bathroom, leaving the door open, and borrowed Miranda’s pestle and mortar again to make sigil ink. The magick he pumped into the herbs turned the paste black. He cut his left palm, directly over the scar from the first time he’d done this. He figured the significance might make it stronger.

“Scott, come here,” Stiles ordered, rinsing his knife off in the sink. He dried it on his jeans and turned to Scott when he came in. “I need your blood.”

Scott lifted his brow, hands held up in surrender. “I swear, dude, I only went in your room twice while you were gone.”

Stiles snorted. “Alpha blood. You’re my Alpha. It’ll make this stronger. Watch.” He sliced open Scott’s palm and squeezed the wound into the mortar, mixing their blood together.

The paste crackled with power.

Stiles nodded. “Thanks. You’re free to go.”

Scott frowned at the paste. “Is that going _on_ you?”

“Yes. It’s so that I can use the sigils that I draw without having to draw them each time. You’ve seen me do it before.”

“You didn’t use blood before,” Scott said quietly.

Stiles turned to face the mirror, dipping his fingers into the paste. “And we almost died how many times? This time we’re ready. Let’s act like it.”

He began to draw and Scott left the room. He didn’t like the scent of sigils singeing skin. It was a valid complaint, but Stiles couldn’t help it.

Down his left arm to his hand, he drew a protection sigil, fog, and an energy bolt. He put binding, night vision, shield, and blinding on his right arm to his hand. He used a sigil for enhanced senses on the left side of his neck. It was so large that it crawled up the side of his jaw, toward his ear and temple. It had to be, to enhance his vision and hearing.

Deaton was watching him.

“It looks like overkill, but we’ve fought them before,” he said, his magick surging through the sigils, binding them to him so they were ready to use at a thought.

“Stiles,” Deaton said slowly, “you’re more magick than person.” He sounded almost concerned.

“I know.”

“Those won’t come off easily,” Deaton continued thoughtfully.

“I know,” Stiles repeated. He added a couple more precautionary sigils along his arms, on his collarbone.

Deaton wandered away and Derek peered in, frowning. “I can’t smell you.” He inhaled as if maybe now that he was closer it would be easier.

Stiles pulled his shirt collar aside. “Scent masking sigil,” he explained.

Derek nodded, but his brows remained furrowed. He’d exchanged his sleep clothes for some jeans and a t-shirt that both looked like they’d seen fights before, if the red-brown stains were anything to go by.

Stiles smiled and set his hands on his shoulders. “I know it bothers you.”

“Is it just scent?” Derek asked, head tilting. Probably listening for his heartbeat.

“Come here and find out,” Stiles said with a wicked grin.

Before their lips met, Stiles’s vision flickered red. “ _Shit!_ ” He shoved away from Derek and saw Scott running for the door already.

Scott nodded at him and caught Kira before she could chase him, shaking his head.

Stiles ran for the door.

“Stiles, where-?” Cora demanded, and snarled when Scott stopped her from following him; he snarled back.

He ran down the porch, outside of the wards, looking for whoever had tried messing with his wards.

“Stiles, what-”

Stiles was whirling to yell for Derek to go back inside the wards when a gunshot cracked through the air, knocking Derek off his feet.

“ _No!_ ” Stiles shouted, flinging up a shield around them and dropping to his knees beside Derek.

“Stay inside the wards!” he ordered when Talia and Darren tried to race out.

They had to physically restrain Laura when Derek whimpered.

The wound was in the meaty part of Derek’s shoulder, spidery black lines of poison spreading around it. Stiles ripped the shirt away from the wound.

Derek gasped, digging his heels into the ground, eyes wheeling.

Stiles felt more wolfsbane bullets striking the shield. “That’s right, fuckface, keep wasting those bullets!” he called, readying a spell. “Derek, I promised you once that I wouldn’t use magick on you again. I am going to break that promise now.” He jerked the bullet out with the summoning spell.

Derek screamed once, body going rigid. Then his eyes closed, his body went limp.

Stiles drew a purification sigil in Derek’s blood, over and over, with shaking fingers, until the poison dispensed. Then he drew a sealing sigil over the wound so it would stop bleeding and could heal.

Stiles stood, stepping out of his shield. It would fail in a few minutes. “ _Deucalion!_ ” he called. “Or is it one of his lapdogs? Ennis? Kali? Freakshow?”

Kali and the emissary flickered into view at the edge of the yard. The emissary was wearing the same robe she’d worn when she attacked Stiles. She was also holding a shotgun.

The shield at Stiles’s back fell without him in it, feeding it energy. Derek was still unconscious, helpless in the grass behind him, outside the wards. He couldn’t let the rest of the Hales come out of the wards, either—not yet, not until he knew where the other Alphas were.

“A witch using a gun?” Stiles let out a wild laugh. “Wow. You’re even more pathetic than I thought.”

As he’d hoped, the witch began to lower the gun and lift her free hand to cast, and Stiles struck, thrusting his left hand out, knocking them down and back a few yards.

Stiles spun around and grabbed Derek’s arm, hauling him up. “Jesus,” he gasped under his dead weight. He propped him up against his back and side and shuffled along until Laura broke free from her parents to grab him. “Get in the wards,” he gasped, but she was already on the porch with him.

He heard a roar as Kali got to her feet; Stiles turned to meet her.

“Stay there!” he shouted, lifting his hand and swiping it through the air.

White energy bolts made Kali’s muscles seize.

She shook it off as quickly as Stiles had drawn the sigil. Her face was half-shifted as she stalked toward him.

“Go,” she snarled over her shoulder, and the emissary crouched, pulling a baggie out of her robe. It was full of blood.

Stiles looked between her and Kali, trying to decide who the bigger threat was.

He shot a stronger energy bolt at Kali, running for the witch.

Kali, laughing, tackled him, teeth snapping close to his face.

Stiles sent energy zipping over his skin until Kali roared and rolled off of him, the scent of burned flesh filling the air.

He jumped up and bound her so her body froze, eyes widening furiously.

“ _Stiles!_ ” Dean shouted from the porch.

Stiles turned in time to get knocked down by the mammoth that was Ennis. He scrambled back, sputtering over the blood that’d filled his mouth.

Ennis grabbed his ankle and yanked, grinning as he dragged him closer.

Something threw him off balance, knocked him forward. Claws dug into his chest from behind and Stiles caught sight of light hair in a flyaway ponytail over his shoulder as he tried to swipe at her.

Stiles got up and flung an energy bolt at Ennis’s face, making him roar and swipe toward Stiles. He started to run at him, but Kali grabbed the back of his shirt and swung him back.

Cora clung to Ennis like a bur, small enough that she could avoid his claws while keeping her grip on him, effectively distracting him from Stiles.

“Have you remembered your Alpha yet, bitch-witch?” Kali asked tauntingly, lifting Stiles off his feet. The fabric ripped. “Called him out to save you yet?” She switched her grip to his throat before he could slip out of the torn shirt.

“No. I figured I could skin you on my own,” Stiles rasped, and traced blinding sigil on the back of her hand.

She yelped, swiping at her eyes. She dropped him and yowled.

“What did you do?” she roared, stumbling around and trying to clear her vision.

Stiles ran back to Ennis and Cora, binding Ennis, sending as much energy through the binding sigil as he could manage. Cora dropped to the ground, panting.

“You okay?” he demanded, helping her stand. “I need you to go back inside. Tell mine to go, get the Alpha pack’s six, and get Talia, Miranda, and the rest out here,” he breathed.

Cora’s wide eyes met his, gold and flickering. Blood trickled from her cheek.

“Do you understand?”

She nodded.

“Then _go_. The emissary is about to break my wards,” he added, turning on his heel and pushing air at the witch to knock her off balance.

The blood in her baggie spattered her robe. She swore and stood up, lifting her hand to cast.

Blue-gray energy rippled on her palms; Stiles’s own white energy crackled up his arms.

“You don’t want to fight me, Stilinski,” she said. She jerked a hand at Kali and Ennis.

Kali stopped scratching at her eyes, and Ennis was able to move. They stood behind the witch.

At his back, he heard the Hale pack come out—a quick glance showed him that only Darrel and Derek were missing. Darrel was on the porch arguing with his mom, tears welling up.

“You’re seventeen,” Talia snapped. “Stay in there. Watch Derek. He’s unconscious, Darrel, he needs you to watch him.” She joined her pack, stepping in front with Peter and Laura flanking her.

Miranda and Deaton ranged themselves on either side of Stiles. Deaton’s red energy flared in his hands, Miranda’s black bubbling along her palms.

The emissary flinched, her hood coming off. She had smooth brown skin a shade lighter than Miranda’s, long straight hair, and a young face that looked familiar.

“ _Randa?_ " she gasped. The energy in her hands sputtered.

Miranda’s face paled. “Tori!” she yelped, taking a step forward. “Why are you—how could you—why would you do this?”

“Who-”

“That’s my younger sister.” Miranda started to shake, rage making her hair curl into tighter rings, then straighten and curl again.

Tori straightened her shoulders. “They were going to kill you an-and Cecelia,” she said. “Now I’m their emissary. I’m strong.”

Kali huffed. “Shut-up,” she sighed.

Stiles readied a spell, but Deaton shook his head slightly. He paused and looked at Tori, who looked frightened.

“We can’t—” she began, looking up at Kali.

“Sure we can. We will,” Ennis growled, licking his lips.

She looked at him furiously. “You’re not my-”

“He isn’t, but I am,” Deucalion came up behind Kali and Ennis, followed by the twins.

“Freakshow!” Stiles called cheerfully. “Good of you to join us.”

Deucalion’s head turned his way. “Ah, Stiles.” He smiled bitterly. It stretched the scar on his cheek. “I see my emissary’s magick isn’t as strong as she thought it was.”

Tori flinched and muttered something under her breath.

“All that practice over the summer for nothing,” Deucalion said pleasantly.

Miranda’s eyes, which hadn’t wavered from her sister, narrowed. “You did that? But-”

“I made other people believe they were doing it,” Tori mumbled.

“Yes, and the point was for Stiles to forget everything.” Deucalion tipped his head. “Yet here we are. He seems to have found himself _another_ pack to manipulate.”

“You-” Laura began, but Talia silenced her.

“Talia Hale, I presume? The Hales are well known.” Deucalion smiled. “If you survive this, perhaps you should consider joining us.”

Talia’s eyes flared red. “I’ve heard about your entry fee. I think I’ll pass joining your little boyband.”

Deucalion’s nostrils flared. “Victoria, since you’ve proven that your methods are less than infallible, you will stay back and watch.”

Aiden took his shirt off and looked at Ethan impatiently when he didn’t do the same. He looked irritated, but followed suit.

Talia let out a low rumbling growl.

Stiles shot his spell at the twins, throwing them apart and all of the wolves charged, roaring.

Ennis knocked Stiles off his feet with a swipe of his arm, heading straight for Cora, who braced herself. When he punched her, she latched onto his arm, clinging while he swung her around. He brought his other hand up and cuffed her across the head.

She fell to the ground, eyes closed.

Stiles got up to help, but Peter was already on him, snarling and half-shifted, guarding Cora’s prone body.

Stiles took his knife out of his boot and, when Aiden bolted past to help Ennis, swiped at him, laying open his forearm. He snarled and turned to chase Stiles.

Miranda cast a burning spell at his back, causing him to roar and whip around to face her.

“Over here, big boy,” she said, lifting her hands. “Let’s play.”

Ethan slammed into Stiles from the side, snarling and snapping.

Stiles grabbed his arm and sent electricity surging through him, the twins both screaming.

Something lifted Stiles into the air, his toes scraping the ground.

“I’m sick of uppity witches,” Deucalion said softly. “Do you-”

“Know who you are, demon wolf, blah blah blah. I’ve heard it all before,” Stiles grunted, lifting his hand into the air.

Clouds rolled in. Miranda skittered away from Aiden and lifted her own hand, adding her power to Stiles’s. Shadows converged, and flames flew up to the sky, signaling Deaton’s help.

Lightning zipped down Stiles’s arm. He felt no pain, just _power_. His eyes flared white; Miranda’s turned full black.

He pressed his palm to Deucalion’s chest. He flew across the yard, slamming into Ennis. Stiles stumbled and looked around.

The Hales looked tired, bloody. They weren’t healing fast—of course not. Alpha wounds.

Stiles let out a two-toned whistle.

A bullet skimmed Ennis’s cheek, scraping flesh from bone.

Most of the McCall pack converged on the Alphas from behind. Scott grabbed Ennis and flicked him away like he weighed nothing, right onto the point of Kira’s sword. It went through his side; he roared and swung around, ripping it out of her hands.

She glared up at him, backing away until he was chasing her. Jackson and Liam jumped on him from either side, taking him down—but only for a second. He jumped back to his feet and swung, throwing Liam into a tree.

Stiles shot toward Kali, who was fighting Isaac, Erica, and Boyd. She snarled and clawed Boyd across the face. His head snapped back and he collapsed. Erica let out a war scream and launched herself at her, legs wrapping around her waist, clawing and biting at her, blood pouring down Erica’s chin and staining her shirt.

Stiles couldn’t get a clear shot without hitting Erica, too.

“We got this, Stiles,” Isaac panted, darting in and coming back with a mouthful of flesh and blood. He spat it out and added, “Humans fighting the one with the shades.”

Stiles looked up sharply.

Allison, Chris, and Nathan were facing off with Deucalion, who was bleeding as much as the humans, black spindly veins of poison spreading over him. He hit Chris with his walking stick, knocking him to the ground. Ennis charged toward Nathan, snarling, leaving Liam and Jackson in the grass behind him.

“ _No!_ ” Stiles yelled, lightning striking between Ennis and his father.

Stiles’s hands were shaking—that was almost too much energy for him.

Ennis roared and changed direction, heading straight for Stiles.

Allison turned and shot at his back, two quick shots before grabbing Chris’s shoulder, saying something Stiles couldn’t hear.

Stiles backed away, lifting his hands. Ennis was snorting like an enraged bull, blood soaking his shirt from the bullet wounds in his back.

Stiles almost tripped over something and looked down; he’d stepped on Peter’s arm. He was unconscious and bloodied, deep gouges down the side of his face and neck. Stiles swallowed and looked back up at Ennis.

Behind him, Jackson, Kira, and Erica were squaring off against Kali while Dean, Laura, Talia, and Darren were fighting the twins, who’d done their freaky morph thing.

Isaac and Boyd were unconscious in the driveway, blood spreading over the gravel.

Ennis swiped at Stiles while he was distracted, taking stock, clipping his shoulder and sending him to his knees. 

Scott. Where was Scott? Stiles ducked his head and leapt out of the way when Ennis charged.

Dean jumped on Ennis’s back while Cora, who still looked dazed, went for his gut, claws digging grooves into the flesh and shirt.

“Stiles!” Scott called.

He had the emissary up against a tree. Stiles ran to them just as he was giving her a shake.

“Break the emissary bond,” Scott ordered. He looked at Stiles. “It makes them stronger, too.”

“No!” Tori shrieked, twisting and trying to get away. Her liquid blue-gray energy seeped up Scott’s arm.

Scott hissed in pain but didn’t let go, the muscles in his arm flexing.

Stiles cursed and darted in, lifting his knife.

“Sti-” Scott began sharply.

Stiles cut her robe open and swiftly carved a shallow sigil in her chest, just below her collarbone.

She screamed, her energy flaring. Then she went limp.

“What did you do?” Scott demanded.

“Broke the bond,” Stiles said tersely. “She’ll live.” He wiped his knife on her robe. “Allison’s gonna need help with Deucalion.”

Kira let out a scream of pain in that moment, and Scott’s eyes flared red before he ran for her.

Stiles turned in time to see Darrel come flying out of nowhere, plowing into Liam’s side, knocking him out of Ennis’s path.

Both boys hit the ground in a tangle of limbs, Liam finally seeing the danger, Darrel seeming to realize they were both down now.

Stiles threw himself in front of the boys, bracing himself for Ennis’s attack. What he got was a spray of warm blood to the face and a gurgling roar.

Stiles gaped, arms still outspread to block Liam and Darrel.

Derek had latched onto Ennis’s back, much like his younger sister, teeth sinking firmly into his throat. He shook his head like a dog, ripping at the flesh beneath his teeth. Ennis’s knees buckled.

Across the yard, Jackson and Erica managed to take Kali down with Scott’s help. Kira and Cora were both unconscious.

Derek didn’t let go, his eyes closed, until Ennis hit the ground face-first and stayed there. Derek got up, blood-soaked, with glowing, Alpha-red eyes.

Chris went down under Deucalion’s claws, losing his grip on his gun. Allison hit Deucalion with the butt of her gun, then swung it around and shot him point-blank with the sawed off. His body collapsed into the yard, wet chunks of his head spattering Allison and her father. 

Talia and Laura were still fighting the twins.

“Go, go help your Mom,” Stiles said immediately.

“I don’t—I’m not-”

“They need help!” Stiles snapped, pressing a hand to his bruised ribs. “Go!” 

Derek flinched and ran to Talia's side.

Stiles looked at Darrel and Liam, who both nodded at him. He went to help Scott. 

“I’ve got it,” Scott grunted when he approached.

Kali grinned at them, her mouth a bloody mess of broken teeth. “You’ll get my Alpha powers,” she spat. “Then you’ll be just like us.”

“Nah,” Stiles said, grabbing her head. He leaned in close. “He’s too pretty to look like you.” He sent a surge of energy through her brain so strong it took him to his knees.

He let go of her, her body flopping to the side, blood leaking out of her nose. Her lifeless eyes stared at Stiles, but he was too shaky and tired to care.

“Stiles,” Scott said worriedly, but he shook his head.

“I’m fine. Talia and Derek can’t kill the twins, they’ll get their powers. You guys-” He looked at Jackson and Erica, both of them bleeding, leaning down to inspect their packmates. “I got it.” He grunted as he got up.

When he got there, though, the twins had split apart and were submitting to either Talia or Derek—it was unclear which. Laura was holding her side, blood pouring out and staining her clothes.

Talia turned. “They submitted,” she said warily.

Stiles shrugged. “I’m not inclined to care.”

Ethan’s eyes widened, but he stopped Aiden from getting up in fury.

“Luckily for you two, that’s my Alpha’s decision, not mine.” He looked at Scott. 

His face was hard. “How do we know you’re not going to attack us again?”

Ethan shrugged. “No pack. We’re betas now.” He flashed gold eyes. “There’s no threat.”

“Deucalion wanted the power,” Aiden said abruptly. “We just wanted pack.”

“You just wanted a family. Very Disney movie, we’re all touched,” Laura sneered.

Ethan looked at her sharply. “Think what you want. You’ll never see us again.” 

“You’re free to kill us if you do,” Aiden added, sneering back at Laura.

“Or,” Stiles said, raising his knife, “we kill you now and eliminate the possibility.”

Ethan paled. “We’re not a threat! We just want to go!”

“Fine,” Scott said, cutting Stiles off. “Then get out of here. Don’t come back.”

They scrambled up and ran.

Scott turned to Talia. “I apologize, Alpha Hale. That was partially your decision. I don’t feel they’ll be a threat.”

Talia accepted his apology with a slow nod. “Alright. Let’s get the wounded inside and…” She paused, turned to Derek. “Oh,” she breathed. “Baby.”

Derek’s face crumbled. He started shaking. “Mom,” he said. “I didn’t mean—I didn’t want—”

“I know. Come here.” She pulled him into a hug.

Stiles looked around the yard, the red-stained grass, the unconscious werewolves. Kira was sitting up and leaning against Scott’s arm, her eyes glassy. She had blood in her dark hair, matting it down.

Danny and Lydia stood on the porch with Nathan, waiting. 

Deaton and Miranda were carrying Tori toward the house; she was still unconscious.

“You guys okay?” Stiles asked Liam and Darrel, leaving Derek and Talia to talk in private.

“Yeah. Mom’s gonna kill me,” Darrel added, shoulders slumping. 

“Why did you come out?” Liam asked curiously.

“Lydia told me I should run, so I did, and I saw the big guy running at your back.” Darrel looked at Ennis’s body. When he swallowed, his throat clicked. “Is Derek…?”

Stiles glanced toward Talia and Derek.

They were no longer hugging. Derek was picking Dean up with relative ease, and Talia had Darren over her shoulders in a fireman’s carry. 

“Come on,” Liam said. “We should get…everyone.” 

Erica carried Boyd inside, Jackson grabbed Isaac, who was so pale from blood loss that he looked translucent, and Scott carried a feebly protesting Kira. Liam and Darrel helped each other with Peter, leaving a trail of blood in their wake.

Talia met them at the door and took her brother, her face going white at the sight of his wounds. 

Soon it was just Stiles and the humans out in the yard with the bodies.

“You okay, kid?” Nathan asked, grabbing Stiles’s shoulder. 

“Are you? You should have stayed by the house. You don’t have super healing or magick.” 

Nathan shook his head. “I’m fine. Allison protected me,” he said with a grin.

Allison grinned back. Her lip was split, and there was a bruise on her cheekbone. “You’re a good shot yourself, Sheriff.”

“So what happened to the Hale kid?” Chris asked cautiously. He had a hand pressed to his ribs where Deucalion had hit him, but otherwise looked unscathed. 

Stiles’s back stiffened. “Derek?” His voice was tight.

“The one that killed Ennis.”

“He gained Alpha powers,” Stiles said shortly.

Chris nodded. “He gonna be a problem?”

“No! He’s been a werewolf his whole life. He’s not just gonna lose control,” Stiles snapped. His head was swimming a bit. He’d used a lot of energy, not to mention getting tossed around like a dog toy.

Miranda and Deaton came outside. Their eyes were still full black and red, respectively. 

Liam and Darrel trailed after them. 

“We’ve sealed and purified everyone’s wounds as best we can,” Deaton said, dipping his head toward Stiles. “Your method seemed to work for Derek.”

Stiles nodded. “Practice.” He looked at Miranda.

She lifted her chin. “My sister is currently unconscious and under Jackson and Talia’s watch.” She lifted her hands helplessly. “I can’t apologize for her. It won’t make it better.”

Stiles nodded slightly; too much head movement caused disruptions in his vision. “I want to talk to her when she wakes up.”

Miranda tensed. “She did something very bad to you, but I can’t let you hurt my sister,” she said, hands clenching.

“She hurt me.” Stiles didn’t intend to harm Tori…not if she was willing to answer his questions. “I almost died. I could have died.”

“His femur, fingers, and wrist were broken,” Darrel said, shifting so he stood beside Stiles. “He couldn’t get anywhere by himself. His ankle was sprained, and he had stitches in his face, arm, and leg. He’s not exaggerating. Your sister almost killed him.”

Liam took a step closer to Stiles. He looked pale and shocked—he hadn’t known about Stiles’s injuries. Stiles gave him as much of a smile as he could muster.

“I know that. It was all kinds of wrong, and she deserves punishment. And I’m wrong to protect her. But I’m gonna do it anyway.” She tried for a smile. “Now let’s get everyone stitched up. You’re bleeding, Stiles.” 

He’d known he was. He’d gotten tossed around, tackled, and hit enough for it, not to mention all the energy he’d used. He felt like he might just fall asleep where he stood. 

He wasn’t going to faint. He _refused_ to faint.

He may have _swooned_ a little, as he was next aware of Liam and Darrel helping him up the stairs.

Scott came out and reached for him.

“I got it,” he slurred. “I’m fine. Just tired.” He stepped over the threshold on his own and swayed.

“You need rest,” Scott insisted. 

“I plan on resting, trust me,” he muttered. His eyes were sort of flagging. “For now I could use a cup of water.” He looked at Miranda. She seemed to be standing at an angle. “I just want to ask her questions.”

Miranda nodded slowly, her brow creasing with concern. “Fine. Maybe-”

Stiles leaned against the wall to catch his breath.

 

Talia crouched in front of him, brushing a cool, wet rag over his face. “You awake?” she asked, running her fingers gently through his hair.

“Yes,” he replied, blinking slowly. “Wait. Who’s watching the em—the witch?” He looked at her in confusion. He seemed to be sitting in the foyer, propped against the wall.

“Chris, Nathan, Jackson, and Laura. None of them are very happy with her,” Talia added, glancing toward Miranda, who was peering over Talia’s shoulder looking anxious.

She nodded. “I actually—can I go check on Dean?”

Talia’s face softened. “Yes.”

Deaton followed her, saying something about seeing to Laura’s wound.

Scott hovered over Talia’s shoulder. “You okay, man?” 

“Yes.” He allowed Talia to wipe more blood off of his face, skimming gentle fingers over his cheeks and forehead. “Okay, I want to go ask the witch some questions.” He pushed to his feet, holding onto the wall to ride out the head rush. Spots danced in his vision.

“Stiles, come on. She’s not even awake yet,” Scott said quietly.

Talia made a quiet noise. “You are in _no_ shape to be questioning anyone, let alone the witch who attacked you. I-” She glanced at Scott and eased back.

He nodded his thanks. “Come on, Stiles. You’re not up to your usual speed. You just fought an _Alpha pack._ And _won_. You look like shit. You won’t be able to think at the level we need you to.” 

Stiles swallowed, still feebly trying to straighten up to walk. With a sigh, he slumped back against the wall. “Fine,” he muttered, closing his eyes. “Fine. I’ll take a nap. An hour.”

Scott let out a soft breath. “Good. Awesome.” Before he could offer to carry Stiles or something equally humiliating, Derek came into view. 

He was still wearing his blood soaked shirt, his neck still blood smeared, but he’d wiped his mouth and jaw off at some point. It gave the impression that he’d been the one with his throat torn out, which made Stiles’s heart trip over itself.

“I’ll take him,” Derek said, stepping around Scott.

Scott snarled, catching Derek’s arm before he could touch Stiles.

Derek and Talia both went tense. Derek’s upper lip skinned back to bare his teeth.

“He killed Ennis protecting me,” Stiles said. He hoped there wouldn’t be a fight. He was too tired to bind two Alphas.

Scott shook his head, letting Derek’s arm go. “Right. Sorry. I—you smell like—and Stiles is my—right.” 

Talia frowned at Scott. “Who bit you?”

He looked at her in surprise. “I don’t know. Dude disappeared.” He glanced at Derek and Stiles. “Go ahead. Sorry.” He smiled sheepishly and Derek relaxed.

“May I speak to you in the front yard, Scott?” Talia’s voice was kind, kinder than Stiles had ever heard it to anyone outside of her pack.

“Sure.”

Stiles looked up at Derek—somehow he’d slid down the wall a bit.

 

Derek took him to the second floor. “So I can change,” he explained, carefully setting Stiles on his bed. 

He got a t-shirt and some sweats out, carrying them to the bed and holding them out to Stiles. “Here. These will be more comfortable."

Stiles shook his head. “I’m good. I’m just gonna take a quick nap.”

Derek’s jaw twitched and Stiles remembered Scott’s control issues when he first got turned. Derek said, “Your shirt is torn and bloody,” in a quiet voice. 

Stiles let out a soft breath and immediately felt bad for bracing for Derek to attack him. “Okay,” he said in a small voice. “Thanks.”

Derek nodded and got some sweats out for himself.

Stiles kicked his shoes off and wiggled out of his jeans. He glanced at his socks, which were bloodstained and stiff and took those off too. He pulled the sweats on—they were baggy on him, so he pulled the drawstring tight and took his shirt off. Derek was right—it was torn and stained badly.

Too exhausted to mourn it, Stiles dropped it by his jeans and shoes, pulling on the shirt Derek had given him. It was soft and thin. Sighing, Stiles leaned back against Derek’s bed, shutting his eyes.

He jerked when the bed dipped beside him.

“Sorry,” Derek whispered. “Just covering you.”

Stiles blinked blearily at him.”C’mere,” he mumbled.

“No, it’s alright.”

“You’re freaked out ’n tired, too,” he muttered, grabbing clumsily at Derek’s shoulder. 

Derek was not wearing a shirt. Stiles wished he was awake enough to appreciate that.

“I’m fine,” Derek started, shifting away.

“Derek.” Stiles struggled to sit up. “I can barely keep my fucking eyes open. I’d rather be downstairs finding out why the fuck this happened. For now, I will settle for a kiss, some cuddling, and a nap.”

Derek sighed, muscles relaxing. “Okay,” he said softly. He got on the bed beside Stiles, leaning down to kiss him lightly.

Satisfied, Stiles let him tuck the blankets around both of them, staying awake just long enough to feel Derek’s arms wrap around him, face buried against his back. He was out seconds later.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay this was another chapter I had fun with. I describe everyone's wounds in detail in this chapter, so beware.
> 
> Also...

He was completely disoriented. It was darker than it should’ve been. He was facing the wrong direction. There was a hand wrapped around his foot.

He lifted his face and grimaced at the line of drool across his cheek.

“You awake?” The hand around his foot flexed slightly.

Stiles turned his head. “How?” he croaked.

Somehow, his head was on the bottom left corner of the bed, his feet near Derek’s chest.

Derek shook his head, looking just as bewildered. “I just woke up, too.” He cleared his throat and sat up, yawning. He looked down over the side of his bed. “Cora?”

Stiles pushed himself up, curling his legs under him, and saw Cora sit up, too.

“Hey,” she whispered. “I was supposed to stay in my room, but I smelled blood in here.”

Derek shifted to make room for her and she crawled into the bed, resting her head on his leg, reaching out to wrap a hand in Stiles’s sweatpants.

“Why didn’t anyone wake us up?” Stiles demanded as his brain defogged. “Why didn’t _I_ wake us up?”

“You were exhausted,” Derek pointed out. 

“Plus, people came in to wake you up,” Cora said quietly. “You only grumbled and rolled over.” 

Stiles frowned. He felt sore and he was still tired, but he was definitely more alert. He decided it wasn’t a big deal. “I’m going downstairs,” he announced, scooting to the edge of the bed. His foot hit the nightstand, knocking a book to the floor. “Sorry,” he muttered, fumbling for the lamp.

All three of them flinched when the light filled the room.

He turned to look at the other two.

Cora was still bruised up; there was a cut across her forehead, a scrape on her chin.

“You’re healing,” he said when she scowled at him.

She rolled her eyes. “Faster than _you_ did.”

“True.” He glanced at Derek, who seemed to be unharmed. “You guys staying up here?”

Derek shook his head. “I want to check on everyone up here before we go down, though.”

Stiles nodded. He wanted to see everyone, too.

They went to Dean’s room first, since it was across the hall from Derek’s. His room was as cluttered as Derek’s was neat. Miranda was slumped on the bed beside him, snoring lightly.

Dean’s eyes opened slightly. He smiled at the sight of them. 

“Hey, guys,” he whispered.

In the dim light from the hall, Stiles could see gashes across his chest, a lump on his forehead.

“Why didn’t Deaton seal those?” Stiles demanded, marching toward the bed.

Dean shook his head. “He and Miranda tried. They wouldn’t seal.”

Stiles frowned. He didn’t remember _that_ happening to them when they’d fought the Alphas the first time. He’d at least been able to seal everyone’s wounds, though they weren’t healed. 

Sealing the wounds stopped the bleeding, put the skin back together. Their bodies would have to heal the tissue under it on their own.

“Can I try anyway?” Stiles asked. “They sealed Isaac’s stomach,” he added, scowling.

“Yeah, I don’t know,” Dean admitted. “Deaton was just as baffled. Peter’s not sealed either. Got the bleeding stopped, but for some reason they managed to seal Boyd and Isaac.”

Stiles stepped around Derek. “I don’t have sigil ink. This may burn a bit,” he murmured, tracing the sealing sigil around the claw marks.

Dean winced at the burn, but the gashes didn’t close.

“Sorry,” Stiles sighed. “I hoped that would work.” He scrubbed a hand through his hair.

“S’okay. I figured it wouldn’t.” He closed his eyes. “Go visit someone else. M’tired.”

Cora scoffed and left first, nose in the air. Stiles glanced at Derek, who was staring at the wound on his brother. 

“I’m gonna go see your dad,” he whispered, touching his arm lightly. 

Derek nodded and stepped closer to Dean’s bed.

Cora showed him where Darren and Talia’s room was, nearest to the stairs and across from Laura’s.

Darren was awake and arguing with Deaton. 

“I’m fine. I want to check on my kids,” he snarled, eyes and claws flashing in a display of temper Stiles had never seen.

“Dad,” Cora said, shocked. 

Darren had a gash across his face that Deaton had sealed into a red scar, bruises across his face, and scrapes on his throat.

His aggression eased at the sight of at least one of his children. “Cora.” He held his arms out, and she ran into them, cuddling close. He looked up at and held his arms out to Stiles, too.

Stiles let out a soft, relieved sigh and moved into his space, letting himself be hugged tightly. Darren pressed his face against Stiles’s shoulder, then into Cora’s hair.

“Now that you’ve seen a _couple_ ,” Deaton said calmly, “you should listen when I say you need more rest. Cora and Stiles, too.”

Stiles glared over Darren’s elbow at Deaton, who held his hands up in surrender.

“I’ll take another nap _after_ I talk to Miranda’s sister.”

Darren flinched. “That’s right. I’ve only met Miranda one other time before this. She takes care of her two younger sisters. She’s very protective of them.” He allowed Stiles to straighten up and step back.

Cora curled up in his lap.

“She _attacked_ me.” Stiles looked down, scowling. “I get that Miranda loves her, but how could she defend her?”

“How could she not?” Cora asked, lifting her head. “I _hate_ that witch,” she added fiercely. “But if Darrel did something like that, I couldn’t let anyone hurt him.” 

Stiles knew he’d do the same for any of his pack—even Jackson. 

“That doesn’t change anything. She attacked me. I want answers.”

“No one will stop you from questioning her,” Darren said earnestly.

Stiles started to say he knew that when Darren looked toward the door and smiled a little.

Derek stepped further into the room. “Dean’s sleeping,” he said to his father.

“Was Dean…hurt?” Darren asked, the smile dropping off his face.

“He’s got big claw marks across his chest that won’t seal,” Cora mumbled.

“ _What?_ ” Darren demanded, trying to get out of bed. When the blankets fell back, it was revealed that he was wearing boxer shorts, and that his thigh had been gouged deeply by claws.

Deaton had sealed those, too, but they left thick red, keloid scars.

“You need to _rest_ , Darren,” Deaton said firmly. “Those won’t go away unless you keep weight off of them.”

Darren ignored him and tried walking away from his bed, but his right leg gave out.

Stiles darted forward to catch him, as did Derek. They eased him back onto his bed together.

“Dad,” Derek rumbled. “Stay in bed. Rest.”

Darren’s head snapped up, eyes rounding in shock. “Derek…?”

Derek eased back, ducking his head.

Stiles caught his arm, holding him in place. “Derek killed one of the Alphas that was coming for Darrel, Liam, and me.”

Darren’s eyes widened even more.

“Show him,” Stiles prompted. 

Derek peeked up from under his lashes, eyes red.

Darren inhaled sharply, then let it out slowly. “It’s gonna be okay,” he said. “We’re going to be okay.”

Derek nodded. “I’m fine,” he said quietly. “It’s—it’s not so bad.”

Cora looked at him, eyes narrowed. “You liar. You _hate it_.” 

“That’s not true. It was—Laura’s supposed to be Alpha.” Derek lifted his hands. “I was never supposed to be.”

Stiles frowned. “Danny thought you were.”

Derek huffed impatiently. “He was making weird assumptions.”

“No, Danny’s a clairvoyant, Derek,” Stiles said, exasperated. “He saw _something._ ”

Cora looked angry. “Why didn’t he say anything?” 

“He didn’t know what it meant,” Stiles mumbled distractedly. “Derek?”

Derek shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.” He kept his gaze down. 

Stiles thought it probably did. Derek had two siblings bookending him on either side, placing him in the perpetual middle child spot. Stiles would bet that Derek was struggling more with the idea that he could _enjoy_ being an Alpha rather than the powers themselves.

He didn’t say that—he’d wait until they were alone to bring it up.

“I’ll bring up some dinner for you guys,” Derek mumbled. “We’re just gonna check on Laura, then go downstairs and see everyone else.”

Darren nodded. He looked shocked still, but at least he was staying put.

Deaton walked Stiles and Derek to Laura’s room. He looked exhausted, his shirt spattered with blood, wearing a stethoscope around his neck. “She’s not in a great mood,” he said quietly.

“I heard that,” Laura snapped, flinging her door open. She was only wearing shorts and a sports bra. She had several red scars on her stomach. “The big one—the one that started as twins—he was swiping at Dean and I jumped on him,” she said with a fierce grin.

“Yes, and your ribs are broken, and your tissue is still healing,” Deaton said blandly.

“I know,” Laura said sourly.

Stiles followed Deaton’s unimpressed gaze to Laura’s window, which was open. “Were you trying to escape?”

She cracked a smile. “No. I was watching Scott and my mom move the bodies.” 

Stiles grimaced. “Where’d they move them to?”

“Around back, I guess. They hosed the yard down, too, got rid of the blood. Mom was asking Scott about how he got bit.”

“Why?” Stiles asked.

Laura shrugged and eased herself onto her bed, grunting and pressing a palm to her ribs. “Dunno. Ask her.” She leaned back against her headboard. She looked at Derek and smiled softly. “Let’s see those ruby reds, baby bro.”

Derek crossed his arms over his chest. “Why?” he muttered.

Deaton frowned at the same time as Laura.

“You earned that Alpha status honestly, Derek. You were protecting people. If there’s a good reason to earn Alpha status that isn’t yours, that’s it.” She grunted more as she sat up. “So quit angsting and _show me your eyes_ ,” she growled, flashing her gold eyes.

Derek growled back, almost deafening, his own eyes flashing.

Laura sat back, smug. 

He sighed, shaking his head. “It doesn’t change-”

“Yes, it does. Stiles, _tell him._ You became Alpha for protecting people.”

“She’s right. You didn’t steal the powers, or go after him for his Alpha powers. You were protecting your little brother.”

“And Stiles and Liam,” Deaton put in quietly.

Laura nodded. “So, stop brooding and own it, bro.” She patted her stomach. “Now, go bring me food.”

Derek’s face twitched.

“Oops. Taking orders probably grates a bit now, huh?” She smiled sweetly.

“We’ll bring you some food,” Stiles said, because Derek looked like he was struggling with himself.

Laura laughed—it sounded wet.

Deaton frowned. “Laura, have you been coughing blood?” he asked sharply.

She shrugged. “It’s healing.”

Deaton made a sound in his throat perilously close to a growl.

Even Derek looked stunned.

“ _Werewolves,_ ” Deaton muttered, stalking to Laura’s bed.

She mouthed, “Run while you can,” over his head when he bent to listen to her chest.

Stiles backed out of the room first; Derek followed him a second later.

“Where’s Cora’s room?” Stiles asked, frowning. There were four rooms and one bathroom in the hall.

“Third floor,” Derek replied. “The attic is split into two rooms for her and Darrel.” 

“Oh.”

“Peter and everyone else are downstairs.”

Stiles followed Derek down the stairs. Most of the injuries seemed to be to the Hales, which made Stiles feel simultaneously guilty and relieved. And guilty for feeling relieved. 

They went to see Peter first. He was sitting up in the guest bed, shirtless and fuming.

He looked terrifying. The left half of his face had deep claw marks along the side, going down to his neck and shoulder. They weren’t bleeding, but they weren’t quite sealed, like Dean’s.

He had other wounds, bruises and scrapes but his face was the worst.

“I’ll heal,” he said shortly. “It’ll just take a while.”

Stiles offered, “It doesn’t look so bad.”

Peter snorted. “I look like an extra in _The Walking Dead,_ ” he pointed out. “I can’t go back to work until these are closed up some.” He glanced toward Derek. “Your shoulder heal? How’s Cora?”

“My shoulder’s fine. Cora’s with Dad.”

Peter nodded, or did something that resembled a nod. He didn’t seem to want to move his neck, understandably. “I thought I saw you during the fight, but you’re not hurt, are you? Did I imagine that?”

“No,” Derek said, shoulders hunching. “You didn’t imagine it.”

Stiles felt bad for him. He had to go through this with everyone they stopped to visit.

Derek flashed his eyes.

To their surprise, Peter grinned widely, stretching the claw marks. “Very nice. Which one did you kill?”

“Ennis. The one who attacked you,” Stiles added. 

Peter closed his eyes like he was savoring the thought. “How?”

“He ripped his throat out,” Stiles said, almost amused by Peter’s reaction.

“With my teeth,” Derek added with a smirk. 

Peter let out a little breath like he had tasted something delicious. “Good. That’s good.” He opened his eyes. “When are we questioning the witch?”

“We?”

“I’m coming, too,” Peter said flatly.

“Then we’re doing it after bringing food to everyone that can’t get out of bed,” Derek said. “Just rest until we come get you.”

Peter sat back. “Fine. Don’t bring me food. Your mother cooked some monstrosity and all I can smell is garlic.”

They checked on Boyd next, or tried to. All Stiles saw was the flash of Erica’s eyes and a warning growl. Derek, face set, stepped in and shut the door in Stiles’s face.

He scowled but waited.

There was a snarl, a yelp, and a thump from the room, followed by Boyd telling Erica to calm down, and Derek saying he just wanted to check on everyone. 

He reemerged with blood around his nose. “Erica’s…stressed,” he explained. “C’mon. Isaac’s over here.”

Isaac and Kira were talking on the bed when they got there.

Isaac had a little more color than he did before, and the wound on his stomach was red but sealed. 

“Hey, Stiles,” Kira said brightly. “You okay?”

“Better than I was before. How about you guys?”

“My head hurts, but otherwise, I’m okay. Jackson kept Ennis off of me,” she added guiltily. 

“Isaac?” Derek asked.

He shrugged. “I’m okay. Tired.” He looked at Kira and grinned. “Kira was telling me about California. The McCall pack doesn’t really have a den.”

“A den?” Stiles repeated.

“Pack house. You all live separately?” Isaac asked, brows lifting.

“Oh, that.” Stiles shrugged. “Most of us are humans.”

Derek frowned. “What about full moons? Or emergencies? You all just stay at separate houses?”

“I mean, sometimes we gather at Chris or my dad’s house,” Stiles said uncomfortably. “Or at the Yukimuras, but I broke a lamp there and Ken hasn’t really forgiven me yet.”

Kira winced. “Mom’s working on it. He felt _really_ bad when you went missing.”

Stiles shrugged. “It works for us. Anyway,” he said before Derek or Isaac could say anything else. “You guys hungry? We can get you some dinner.”

Kira nodded enthusiastically, then winced and brought a hand up to her head. “After you check on everyone else first, right?” 

Stiles tensed. “Who else is hurt?”

“Jackson, Chris, and Allison. Deaton scolded them for not telling anyone sooner.”

“Chris and Allison?” Stiles asked breathlessly. _The humans, the humans._

Kira’s eyes widened. “They’re okay! I mean, Chris has a couple fractured ribs, Deaton thinks, and some scrapes. Allison’s left hand is a little messed up.” 

“Alright. We’ll go check on them now. Thanks,” Derek said, smiling tightly at them.

Stiles found Chris and Allison in his room, along with Jackson, Danny, and Lydia.

“Hey,” Allison said with a smile. “You’re up.”

“Yeah. You okay?” he asked, stepping into the room.

She grimaced and held up her hand; it was wrapped and braced. “Sprained wrist, two broken fingers. I’ll live.”

Chris nodded. “I’m good. Deucalion almost bit me, so it could have been much worse.”

“Good thing I was there,” Allison said smugly.

He rolled his eyes.

“Jackson?” Stiles asked a little stiffly. They got along better now, but they’d never be as close as the rest of the pack.

Jackson rolled his eyes. “I’m _fine_ , no matter what the _vet_ says.” 

He had gouges on his right hip that curved up his back. Like Isaac’s, they’d been sealed. Though he wouldn’t ever admit it out loud, Stiles could see they were painful. 

“Least she didn’t get your face,” Stiles said with a smirk. “You couldn’t afford it.”

“I really liked it better when you were MIA,” Jackson sneered.

“You missed him,” Allison said with a smile. “Admit it.”

“No, I didn’t,” he huffed.

“Dude, you had his old lacrosse jersey in your Porsche,” Danny snorted, and Jackson turned red.

“That was because Scott wanted us to track him,” Jackson snapped, eyes flashing.

Danny laughed.

Lydia rolled her eyes. “I’m going to get food. If anyone wants to grow up and join me, I’ll be in the kitchen.”

Derek was scowling at Jackson but he didn’t say anything, just followed Stiles out of the room. 

“You okay?” Stiles asked when Derek’s face remained stormy down the hall.

“Yeah. Why is he like that to you?” he blurted.

“Who, Jackson? He loves me.”

“Fuck you, Stilinski!” came from behind them, followed by Danny’s laughter.

“Deep down,” Stiles added.

“Your pack shouldn’t…he’s _pack_. You’ve been missing—and hurt and he—” Derek’s eyes were glowing, teeth bared.

“Dude.” Stiles caught his hand. “Calm down. That’s just how Jackson and I interact. We get along better than we used to, and now I trust him not to let something kill me while my back is turned.”

Derek still looked disgruntled as they entered the kitchen.

Scott, Talia, Nathan, and Lydia were standing, watching Liam and Darrel demonstrate what looked like Darrel’s rush from the house and to Liam’s rescue. 

“—and then Stiles came flying out of nowhere and just-” Darrel said, flinging his arms out and blocking Liam.

“Then Derek jumped on Ennis like-” Liam bent his knees and, on cue, Darrel jumped on his back, almost tipping them both over.

Stiles caught Scott’s eye. They grinned at each other.

Stiles was glad Darrel and Liam got along so well, despite the two years between them. He wondered if they’d stay in contact after…after.

He didn’t want to ask.

“Then Stiles-” Liam paused and turned around, still supporting Darrel’s weight. “Stiles! Derek! Hi.” 

Darrel smiled from over his shoulder. “Dinner is spaghetti and garlic.”

“Garlic _bread_ ,” Talia corrected.

“We’re going to bring plates to everyone else first,” Derek said, and Talia nodded as if she’d expected as much.

 

After they’d delivered everyone’s plates (Talia took Peter’s. She emerged victorious, but with a couple noodles in her hair), they made their own and went to the dining room, except Lydia, who went to eat with Danny, Jackson, and the Argents. 

“You doing okay, kiddo?” Nathan asked, putting his hand on Stiles’s shoulder. 

“Yeah, I’m good. What about you?” 

“Fine. Not a scratch.”

Talia cleared her throat.

“A little scratch,” he amended. “Deaton put a band aid on it.” He made a face at her, but she just smiled. “How bout you, kid?” he asked Derek cautiously. “You doing okay?”

Derek looked surprised. “Yes. I’m—fine.”

Nathan smiled. “Good, that’s good. I hear you’ve been dating my son.”

“We haven’t gone on a _date_ ,” Stiles pointed out, trying to give Derek time to escape.

“Why not?” Nathan asked, sitting next to Derek at the table. “You’re _together_ , though, right?”

“Well—I thought—yes,” Derek settled on. “Right?”

Stiles said, “Yeah,” and left them to it.

They ate in peace, or mostly, with Nathan questioning Derek, Talia looking amused (and possibly grateful that Nathan was taking Derek’s mind off things), and Darrel and Liam play-fighting over the least offensive piece of garlic bread. 

Near the end of the meal, Miranda came in. She looked tired and nervous. “Stiles, my sister woke up. If you want to come talk to her.” She clenched her jaw.

“Yes, I do.” He stood up immediately. “I’ll be back to clean this up,” he said to Talia.

“I’m coming, too,” she said, rising. “You two stay here,” she added, and Scott nodded at Liam.

“I’ll be joining in, too.” Nathan wiped his mouth on a napkin before standing.

Derek stood, too.

Miranda looked irritated and scared. “Anyone else?”

“Us, too,” Danny said from behind her.

She turned and flinched at the sight of Peter. “Fine,” she snapped, marching out of the room.

Peter grinned widely at her, the gashes twisting his face horrifically. 

Stiles walked beside Miranda, with Derek a step behind him, and everyone else spread out behind them.

Scott was tense. Stiles wasn’t sure if it was the situation, the fact that there were now three Alphas in a close space together, or a combination, but Stiles could sense it, and it made him tense, too. 

Tori’s room was the guest room furthest from the front door.

Miranda pushed the door open. “We’re going to ask you some questions,” she announced in a hard voice that Stiles didn’t expect, stomping in.

Stiles followed her.

He expected the emissary who’d stood at Deucalion’s side, confident, powerful, furious.

The girl that turned around was a tear-streaked teenager.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made a throat-ripping-with-teeth joke that I couldn't quite help. Please forgive me. It's horribly cliched but I just couldn't help it. D:


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the comments!! <3 They make my day so much brighter. :D
> 
> Oh, also, someone mentions suicide in this chapter. Danny talks about that being a possible future for someone, but no one does anything. Just wanted to let everyone know.

Tori looked directly at Stiles and said, “I’m sorry.” Her eyes shone with tears. 

Stiles frowned at her. “Sit down. I want to get some answers.” He heard the door close and glanced over his shoulder.

Scott, Talia, and Derek were lined up behind him, with Danny and Miranda on either side of Stiles, and Peter and Nathan by the door. All of the werewolves were glowering with glowing eyes.

Tori’s eyes were locked on Peter now. She looked sick, but she sat at the edge of the bed. 

“Why did they choose you as their emissary?” Stiles asked, drawing her attention to him.

“They watched other witches, too,” she said, her voice breaking. “They chose me when they saw me with ’Randa and Celia. They sent Aiden to get to know me, and had me watch a video of Ennis following my little sister to school.” Her hands trembled, so she locked them together.

Stiles’s voice stayed even, cool. “Is that why you helped them?”

She nodded, swallowing. “Deucalion s-said they would c-cut Cecelia’s stomach open and that Ennis w-would eat her alive.” She took a shaking breath. “And after that he’d go get Miranda. And that I’d have to watch.” 

“How did they know Stiles was here?” Scott asked.

Danny leaned forward on the balls of his feet, head tilting. 

Tori leaned away from his intense stare, obviously not realizing he was staring at the air around her, rather than at her face. “They followed you from California. Th-they couldn’t get into Beacon Hills, but they stayed close until they found you outside of it, at a rest stop outside of LA. They know all of your scents.” She took a hitching breath. 

Danny fell back, brow lifting.

“How exactly did _you_ find me?” Stiles demanded, making her flinch.

“I f-found you after you met with Randa. You picked up some souvenirs from a store by Randa’s place, dropped them at your hotel—I got—I found out when you w-were leaving town from Miranda.”

Miranda closed her eyes. “Tori,” she said.

Tori’s trembling had spread until the whole bed shook in time with her. 

“And what did you do to Stiles?” Peter asked in a silky voice.

Her gaze snapped to him. “I made two cars slam into him on the highway.” She closed her eyes and swallowed with some difficulty. “Three people died in the crash,” she murmured. “The fourth is in a coma.” 

“ _Victoria!_ ” Miranda gasped.

“ _I know!_ ” She kept looking at Peter until the tears in her eyes dried. “I know.” She inhaled. “After he went over the guardrail, I…I went to his car and put the memory lock on him.”

“How’d you make it so powerful?” Miranda demanded. Her voice was like a whip crack, and made Tori flinch.

“I u-used a m-mixture of Deucalion’s blood and m-mine. Made Stiles drink it. Then I left him there.” 

Stiles grimaced at the idea of drinking Deucalion’s blood. 

“Blood magick.” Miranda laughed wildly. “Of course. Why not.”

Tori seemed to shrink in on herself. She looked at Stiles miserably.

“Why did they choose to erase my memory instead of killing me?”

“They thought your pack would come running once someone called to tell them you were injured and had amnesia, versus someone telling them you were dead.” She swallowed and lowered her gaze. “I hoped you’d die.” 

Growls and snarls filled the room; Derek took a step forward, but stopped when Nathan grabbed his shoulder.

Impassively, Stiles asked, “Why? That was against their plans.”

Tears filled her eyes. “I didn’t _want_ to hurt you, but I had to. So I hoped you’d die, and that your pack stayed put so they couldn’t hurt anyone. I didn’t want the plan to work. Your cellphone…” she hesitated.

“What?” he demanded.

“I destroyed it. And. Told Deucalion.” Her voice was hitching with tears. She took a second to calm down before speaking. “I t-told Deucalion it got destroyed in the crash, b-but I kn-know he didn’t b-believe m-me.” She swallowed and wiped her eyes impatiently. In a quiet voice, she said, “Your wallet is in Miranda’s s-shop. I h-hid it there.”

Shrewdly, Danny asked, “What did they do to you when you said the phone was broken and the wallet was lost?”

Tori’s spine stiffened. “Nothing lasting,” she said, avoiding everyone’s gazes. 

“What happened to the Jeep?” Scott asked.

“They destroyed it, I think. I never saw it again but they looked really smug about it.” She wiped at her face with shaking hands. 

Stiles narrowed his eyes. “And what’d you do for a month?” 

“Besides look for you?” Tears filled her eyes again, the stubborn resolve melting away. “They went around…recruiting.” She looked at Miranda and finally started to cry. “They—killed—the-the Villaverde pack,” she hiccupped, and started to sob into her hands.

Miranda looked stricken. “Alicia—and Gemma—?” she choked.

“And the kids. Th-they m-made m-me watch.” Tori pulled her knees up and buried her face in them, harsh sobs wracking her body.

Miranda took a half step toward her, then away, looking conflicted.

Stiles looked at Danny, who looked a delicate shade of green.

“She was telling the truth,” he mumbled through his teeth. “Slaughter,” he said very quietly. “They slaughtered the whole pack, even the kids.” 

Miranda pressed her hand to her mouth, tears filling her eyes, too. She went to her sister and wrapped herself around her. “You’re in so much trouble,” she sniffled. 

“I know.”

Stiles looked around. “Any more questions?” he asked blankly.

Silence and headshakes greeted him, so Nathan opened the door and everyone filed out. 

They went to the dining room. Peter collapsed into a chair like he was exhausted, closing his eyes. Talia went and got a cup of water for him. 

Stiles sat down, too, staring at the table. Danny sat to his left, Derek his right. 

“She was telling the truth about everything,” Danny said. “Her past-thread was just…it was bad.”

“What about her future?” Stiles asked, rubbing his temples. 

Danny shook his head. “Jumbled. Jail, sometimes. Powers stripped. Sanitarium. And…” He hesitated. “Sometimes she’s dead.”

“How?” Scott asked sharply.

Danny looked down. “Suicide. That was the strongest thread. She felt guilty and sick and…” He shrugged. “I think Miranda might help. That one faded when Miranda went to her.”

“And what’d they do to her?” Stiles asked, surprising himself. 

Danny met his eyes. “Nothing good. Stiles,” he said tentatively, “she’s a victim, too.”

Scott was watching him. “He knows that.”

Stiles nodded. “She still killed three people and almost killed me.”

“Under duress,” Scott said.

“I know,” Stiles replied, slumping. “I need to think,” he blurted, standing up.

“C’mon,” Scott said, standing with him. 

Relieved, Stiles followed him from the room. 

They went to the backyard so Stiles could pace without running anyone over. “What’d you and Talia do with the bodies?” he asked.

Scott watched him seriously for a moment. He probably knew Stiles was trying to order his thoughts. “We buried them in the wooded area over there. She said they’ll burn them on Halloween, since there’s a lot of bonfires then.”

Stiles nodded. “I want to negotiate an alliance with Talia. A formal one. Long term.”

Scott remained quiet.

“They’re good allies to have. This wasn’t their fight, but they have the most wounds. They protected us. We work well together.”

Scott nodded. “All true.”

“And…” Stiles sighed, pacing away from the house.

Scott followed him. “And?” he prompted quietly.

“And Derek’s still part of Talia’s pack, technically. I think.” He shut his eyes. “I don’t want to leave anyone.” 

“Especially Derek,” Scott finished with a little smile. “Is he your Allison?” he joked.

Since Allison hated that phrase, Stiles said, “No. It’s not like _that_.” He ran his hands over his face. “I just…he…we…” 

“He can’t hear you, if that’s what you’re worried about. He’s talking to Talia right now. You can say it.”

“I don’t want to go. We could…have something, you know? We just started but it’s…good,” he finished lamely. “It’s good and can get better.” 

“So…”

“So it doesn’t matter,” Stiles sighed. “Cause I’m going—I can’t leave you guys, either.” He put his hands behind his head.

“An alliance with the Hales…?”

“Means we can visit, they can visit. A formal, magickal alliance would also make it easier for you to handle having them in Beacon Hills, even Derek.” Stiles rubbed at the sensory sigil near his ear. He could hear a mouse scuttling through the yard, could see Scott’s features even in the dark. 

Scott looked at him. “When will those come off?”

“Few days, maybe a week.” He shrugged. “I don’t know what to think about Tori,” he admitted. “Danny’s right. She was a victim, too. So what do I do?”

“Let Miranda deal with her,” Scott said. “She can bind her or strip her powers, keep an eye on her.”

Stiles nodded. “We should warn Miranda about her suicide thread, even though it’s faded.” 

Scott nodded back. 

Stiles wasn’t sure what else to say. He wanted to keep babbling about his roiling thoughts until they put themselves in order, but he knew that’d just waste time he could spend with Derek.

“So…are you okay with an alliance with the Hales?”

Scott looked at him almost pityingly. “Of course I am. Now, let’s go back inside. It’s almost ten, and we should get some sleep.” 

Numbly, Stiles followed him inside, to the dining room. 

Derek was standing in the hall. Wordlessly, Stiles took his hand and led the way to the stairs, up to Derek’s bedroom.

Derek started to put a hand on Stiles’s shoulder, then stopped, smiling a little, and kissed him lightly.

When he pulled back, Stiles let out a shaky breath and wrapped his arms around Derek’s neck, pulling him back in.

Derek cupped his hips, biting gently at his mouth as they kissed. Stiles backed him up against the door, reaching up to grab handfuls of his hair. 

He groaned and pressed his hips into Derek’s, who responded by grabbing Stiles under the thighs and lifting him, so he could wrap his legs around Derek’s waist.

“Fucking werewolves,” he panted, twisting his hips, grinding down against Derek, who let his head fall back against the door. Stiles darted in to suck on his throat until he was whining and gasping, arching his back. 

“Bed. Go to the bed,” Stiles ordered.

Derek walked to the bed, letting Stiles drop his feet to the ground when they reached it, still kissing and holding each other.

Stiles grabbed the front of Derek’s shirt, yanking him forward and kissing him hard. Then, while he was still off-balance, he shoved him back onto the bed. He followed, letting Derek bracket his hips with his knees as he leaned down to kiss him again, rolling his hips forward.

Derek sighed and turned his head, eyes screwed shut.

“S’okay,” Stiles whispered. “Lemme see ’em.”

He turned back, eyes glowing, fangs resting against his bottom lip. He was panting lightly, and when Stiles leaned forward, he lifted his chin, leaving his throat exposed. He kept his gaze steady and on Stiles, mouth parted with want.

Stiles pressed open mouthed kisses from Derek’s collar bone to his throat, scraping his teeth along the skin and smiling when Derek groaned. 

Derek grabbed Stiles’s hips and pulled him closer, hands sliding up his back and to the back of his neck. He brought their mouths together, sighing into the kiss and gentling it a little.

Stiles hesitated, confused with the tone change, but allowed it, followed Derek’s lead eagerly to see where he wanted to go. 

Derek slowed the kisses to little soft pecks, tiny nips, until they were just resting their foreheads together, lips brushing with every breath. Stiles felt Derek’s canine tooth scrape his lip.

“We have to stop,” Derek finally said.

Stiles sat back, giving him space. “Are you alright?” He had a thought. “Not because of your fangs, right? Cause, I’ve got news for you—” 

“No.” Derek moved away. His lips were rubbed raw, hair crazy mussed. “You’re trying to distract yourself.”

Hurt shot through him. “Wow. Nice.” He made to get off the bed, but Derek caught his leg.

“You _are_. Because you don’t know what you’re doing, do you?”

“Do you?” Stiles shot back, crossing his arms. He stayed on the bed, and Derek kept his grip on his ankle.

Derek shook his head. “I don’t know,” he breathed.

Stiles looked down. “Me either.” 

They both flinched when Laura banged her fist on the door. “Mom wants everyone downstairs. You too, Stiles!”

 

Downstairs, Talia had just finished filling her pack in on what Tori had said. Peter and Dean were absent due to their open wounds, but Boyd, Erica, and Isaac had come out, along with Darren and Cora.

Boyd’s shoulder and neck were scarred, and Stiles understood why Erica had been so protective. It looked like Boyd had narrowly missed having his throat torn out by Kali.

“And now that everyone is up to speed,” Talia said, addressing the McCall pack, too, who’d gathered in a haphazard pile on the other end of the room, “we need to discuss what we’re doing from here.”

“Alpha McCall and I would like to outline a formal, permanent alliance with you,” Stiles said calmly. 

Talia nodded. “Good.”

“I can’t stay here,” Derek blurted. He flushed when his pack turned to look at him, stunned. “I’m—I’m an Alpha. Without betas.” He looked at his mother, and Stiles’s heart just _ached_ for him. He looked scared. 

“If Derek leaves, I want to go with,” Isaac said.

Cora gaped at him, followed by most of the pack.

Talia alone seemed unsurprised, though sad. “I figured.” She smiled.

“You’re _leaving?_ ” Darrel burst out. “But—but you could—it would be-”

Laura looked upset, arms crossed and mouth pressed tightly shut.

“It’s up to Derek,” Talia said gently. “And Isaac. He can submit to Derek and be part of his pack, instead.”

“How?” Isaac asked quickly, and looks of hurt flashed throughout the room. 

Erica’s face fell into stony anger, but Boyd looked thoughtful.

“Later,” Talia assured him. “Anyone else have any questions?”

“You’re just gonna run away?” Laura demanded, standing up.

Derek looked lost. “You’re Mom’s successor. _Three_ Alphas in one house?”

“We could make it work. We’re fine now, aren’t we?”

“We were under threat,” Talia said carefully. “We’d need more space. We could, but it would be difficult.”

“So what? _Everything’s_ difficult.” Laura crossed her arms, then winced and uncrossed them.

Derek met her gaze, drawing himself up. “I can’t stay.”

“Yeah, I got it.” She looked at her mother, barely meeting her gaze. “Can I go back to my room? Deaton said my left lung isn’t done healing.”

“Go.” Talia looked around the room. “If there are no more questions, everyone except Isaac, Derek, and Deaton, go ahead to your rooms.” 

Darren shook his head slightly, looking pasty, and Talia nodded. He stayed seated.

Scott stood up. “Everyone should try to get some sleep.”

Danny paused on his way out, squinted at Derek’s right ear, then smiled at him. He continued on without a word. 

“He likes you?” Stiles offered when Derek looked confused.

Once it was just Alphas, emissaries, Isaac, and Darren, Talia told Isaac that submitting to Derek was simple.

She and Darren hugged him close first, scenting him, listening when he whispered an apology. He got on his knees in front of Derek, throat exposed. 

Derek looked confused for a moment, panicked, before a sort of dreamy calm came over his face. He reached out and set his claws gently against Isaac’s exposed throat. Their eyes flashed at each other when Derek’s claws pricked Isaac’s skin slightly. 

“What—that’s all?” Stiles asked when Isaac stood.

He could feel it though, the shift. Now that Derek had a beta, there were three packs in the room.

Talia smiled—it looked slightly shaky. “Isaac submitted to Derek, placing himself at his mercy. Derek accepted him, showed him that he wouldn’t hurt him, even when it would be so easy.”

Derek nodded and looked at Isaac, frowning. “I can…”

“You’ll get used to it,” Scott said, startling Stiles.

Stiles looked between them. “Get used to what?”

“I can sense Isaac’s wounds.” He frowned harder. “You should sit down,” he said quietly, and Isaac sat, grimacing, at the table.

“Now,” Deaton said, looking toward Stiles. “The alliance. I think we agree that it will extend past war-time amity.”

Stiles nodded. “I want our packs-” he hesitated, glancing at Derek—“all three of our packs to be extensions of each other. My Alpha is okay with that.” He looked up at Talia, whose face was impassive. 

She sat down beside Deaton. “Let’s discuss terms.” 

Stiles grinned and leaned forward.

 

It took an hour to create the formal alliance, which included discussing terms and a magickal contract-slash-connection. Darren and Isaac acted as witnesses while Derek, Scott, Talia, Deaton, and Stiles held hands and agreed to the terms. 

Gold-white light connected Scott and Stiles, red connected Deaton and Talia, and violet twisted between both, connecting them to Derek, since he didn’t have an emissary.

After that, Scott and Deaton helped Darren get to the bathroom on his way back to the bedroom. 

Isaac looked at Derek for direction, which made him freak out again. 

“Mom—I—where will I go?” he blurted. “What am I supposed to –I don’t want this—I wasn’t supposed to be an _Alpha._ ”

Isaac looked a little hurt.

Talia just tipped her head. “Do you want to try?”

Derek glanced around. “D-do you mind if I talk—?”

Stiles shook his head. “I wanna go check on my dad and everyone. Just—you just…go ahead.”

He turned and left the room, a little blindly, walking until he almost ran into Jackson. He hissed and jerked away, protecting the wounds on his back.

“Does it still hurt?” Stiles asked dully. “I can find some herbs to fix it. I doubt it’ll be as good as I could do at home, though.”

Jackson’s face was tight. “I’m fine. –Thanks,” he added shortly.

“I can help if you’re in pain-”

“I said I’m fine,” Jackson snapped.

Stiles held his hands up. “Fine. Whatever.” He went to his room and found Danny and Nathan in there.

“He doesn’t mean it,” Danny said placidly. “He just knows you burned out your energy and doesn’t want you to use anymore.”

To his surprise, Jackson didn’t shout an immediate denial from the hallway. He had already walked away, then.

“How’d it go?” Nathan asked. “You look tired.” 

“I am. It went well. Scott’s happy with it, so is Talia. We are officially the extended Hale-McCall pack. Or the McCall-Hale pack, depending on who you ask.” He sank onto the bed next to his father.

Nathan draped his arm over his shoulders. “And what about Derek?” he asked gently.

“Oh, he’s part of the alliance,” Stiles said casually. “I have,” his breath hitched, “no fucking clue what he plans on doing, but he’s included in the Hale-McCall extension package.”

“He didn’t say what he…and Isaac, I assume, were doing?”

“He’s talking to Talia. He wanted to talk to her…alone.”

Danny made a noise like an angry cat. “Want me to go look for you?” he asked fiercely. “Get it over with?” 

Stiles shook his head. “He’s confused, and scared. I just—wish he’d talk to me about it, too.” He leaned against his father. “I’ll let him figure it out, talk to him in the morning.” 

Nathan nodded, rubbing Stiles’s shoulder gently. “And what’re you doing?” 

Stiles closed his eyes. “I’m coming home, of course.” He swallowed. “I’ll say goodbye in the morning.” 

Scott came in. “Laura threw a bra at me when I passed her door. I’m not sure what it means. Kira doesn’t seem to think it means anything. I’ve never met this many born wolves! What if it _means_ something?

Stiles laughed wetly, wiping his nose on Nathan’s shirt.

Nathan said, “Gross! _Stiles!_ ” in such a dad voice that everyone laughed.

“I don’t think it means anything,” Stiles said with a straight face, ignoring his father’s disgust. “The only difference I’ve noticed is that they’re more comfortable with full moon nudity than you guys.”

Scott blushed. “We’ve gotten past most the issues. It just makes it awkward when most of our pack doesn’t shift.”

Danny rolled his eyes, bumping his shoulder against Stiles’s back. “We leaving in the morning?” he asked Scott.

Scott shrugged. “Maybe like afternoon or evening, let everyone get some more rest.”

“Are we driving?” Stiles asked, ignoring the ache in his chest.

His Jeep was either completely destroyed or somewhere at the bottom of a lake or something, along with his clothes and everything he’d brought with him.

“Yeah, Chris’s contact had a family emergency. We’re gonna rent a couple cars for cross country travels.”

“Good.” Nathan frowned before a look crossed his face that was familiar to Stiles; he’d had some thought about something unrelated to the conversation. “Stiles, what was it that you did—with the sky? You, Miranda, and Deaton, during the fight?”

Stiles shot a smug look toward Danny and Scott—he came by it honestly, at least. “The sky—? Oh. Witch battle tactic. I was absorbing power from the air, and they split it up. It’s like…making sure we can all make it through the fight.”

Nathan nodded thoughtfully. “I’ve never seen you do that before.”

“I’ve never fought with witches. Against them, sure.” Stiles yawned. He was still thinking about everything, but it was as if he’d gotten his answers, and now his body had decided _enough is enough._

He wasn’t sure he could stay up much longer.

“Is the town still locked down?” he asked, his words slurring a bit.

Scott and Nathan shared a look. “Yes, it is. We wanted to wait for you to make a decision.”

“Good. Great.” He blinked at Scott. “We can probably take it off now that they’re dead.” 

Nathan stood and pulled the blanket back, nudging Stiles until he scooted back against the pillows. 

“I want to talk to Derek,” he muttered, but he allowed his dad to tuck the blankets up around him.

“You can do that in the morning.” Nathan made some motion at the others that Stiles couldn’t see.

Danny left first, pausing to whisper something to Scott.

Scott smiled and left, too.

“You going, too?” Stiles mumbled, eyes half-lidded already. 

“Nah. You’ll have to share for now.” Nathan turned the light off and got on the bed next to him. “Phew, son, before we get on the road tomorrow, you need to shower.”

Stiles laughed quietly. “None of the werewolves mind my smell.”

“Yes, we do!” came from three different parts of the house, making him scowl.

“No privacy,” he muttered. Now that the lights were off, he couldn’t get his eyes to stay closed.

“Shower. Before breakfast.” Nathan squeezed his shoulder lightly and went quiet.

Stiles stared at the ceiling, sure he wasn’t going to be able to sleep. He passed out twenty seconds later.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost the ~end~! Thanks for reading, everyone, and commenting! :*

Stiles woke up alone. Since he remembered falling asleep with Nathan, his heart hammered, weird, half-sleeping thoughts racing through his head. Things like _Deucalion isn’t really dead, he’s got my dad,_ and _Kali must have gotten him_ or, the most terrifying, _The twins got everyone and missed me._

Then he remembered Allison shooting Deucalion point-blank. In the face. With a shot gun. He remembered sending the force of a strike of lightning through Kali’s brain. He calmed down and looked around. The room was dappled with early morning light, and clothes had been laid on the empty half of the bed. 

Not the plain t-shirts and new jeans the Hales had gotten him. He picked up the Wonder Woman comic print shirt, the ripped, stained jeans. There was a red plaid shirt under the tee, and Star Wars boxers.

The suggestion that he shower was strong. He got out of bed stiffly and stretched until his muscles eased.

His sneakers were at the foot of the bed. Someone had scrubbed at the bloodstains, but he clearly needed a new pair.

Sighing—he’d certainly been less stressed about a job when he had no memories—he gathered up his clothes and went to the bathroom. 

Once he had scrubbed his hair and body, he got out and dressed. The sigils had barely faded, like fresh tattoos. 

He ran his hand through his wet hair and opened the bathroom door. The scent of bacon sent his stomach growling. 

Conversation cut off as soon as he was within earshot of the dining room.

Nerves twisted his gut, but he walked in, grin hitched in place. “Mornin-” he started, cut off when Cora and Darrel all but tackled him, arms wrapping around his torso and neck.

Cora pulled back first, sniffling, and thrust a stack of pictures at him. “I gave Nate some, too.” She glared up at him. “My cell number and Skype info are written on the back of one of those. You better not ignore me, asshole. Allison gave me your Skype and email and Facebook.” 

Stiles laughed wetly. “I wouldn’t ignore you. Any of you. You better get used to this face. My favorite app is Snapchat.” 

Darrel’s arms tightened around his waist, head nudging under his chin. “You’ll call and text me, too, right?” 

“Yeah. Of course.” He patted his back, sighing.

When Darrel let go, he looked down. On top of the stack of pictures Cora had given him was one of the selfies he, Cora, and Darrel had taken together. It was before he’d healed, his face still bruised and scraped in the picture. 

The others were candid shots of him with the pack or the pack just being together, taken by Cora’s cellphone camera. 

His throat felt tight looking at them, so he looked up instead. “Thanks, Cora.”

She smiled. “You’re welcome.”

He checked over her shoulder—even Peter and Dean had come out of their rooms to eat. Their wounds had closed a bit, enough that they didn’t look like clay figures someone had ripped through anymore. 

“Hey,” Stiles said slowly as he counted heads. His stomach sank, but he tried to stay calm, recounting. He got to twenty and frowned. “Is, um, Derek still sleeping?...and Isaac?” 

The pitying looks made him feel like puking.

Talia stood up. “Stiles, let’s go get you a plate.” 

“Where did they go?” he asked, body bracing. He felt like he was about to be hit. He didn’t want an answer. 

“Come on,” Scott said quietly, standing as well.

The two Alphas practically frog-marched him to the kitchen, giving him little choice. 

“Stop,” he muttered.

Scott started making him a plate.

Stiles looked at Talia. “They left.”

She nodded. “Before you get upset— _more_ upset—he hasn’t just disappeared or run away. He doesn’t feel confident in himself as Alpha, doesn’t even know how to be one. He and Isaac are bonding,” She inhaled and smiled tightly. “It won’t be for long. Two weeks.”

“Bonding? Where?” 

Talia smiled a tiny bit winder. “They are visiting an old friend of mine.”

Stiles clenched his jaw. “He…couldn’t stay long enough to say—for me to—I just—” He hated that his voice shook, that tears welled in his eyes. He was stronger than this, had been through enough to hold himself emotionally away until the time was right.

Now he was falling apart over…over nothing.

Talia folded him into a hug, wrapped him close and nuzzled her cheek against his. “I’m going to miss you,” she whispered. “You are always welcome here.”

“You reminded me of my mom,” he whispered back. “Even when I didn’t remember her.” 

Talia made some suspicious wet noise and held him closer. 

Once they’d both calmed, Stiles drew back. “You weren’t surprised when Isaac chose to submit to him,” he said slowly.

“No, I wasn’t.” She smiled sadly.

“Why not?” 

Scott banged a fork on the edge of the plate he’d made, giving Stiles a warning look.

Talia just shook her head. “I know my betas. Isaac has a lot of bad memories in Sunset. He’s wanted to leave for a while, but he didn’t want to leave his pack.” 

“What kind of bad memories?” Stiles asked.

“His father,” she replied with eyes that had turned a reddish hue, “was not a good person. We took him in after Lahey nearly killed him.” She smiled wanly. “Can you blame him for wanting to leave?”

Stiles shook his head. 

 

The goodbyes were made throughout breakfast. Erica and Boyd were arguing in low voices, with Erica looking increasingly frustrated. 

Laura smacked a kiss right on Stiles’s mouth, shocking him, and demanded he stay in contact with _all_ of them. Dean did much the same thing, except he didn’t say anything, just ruffled Stiles’s hair, dropped a worn Star Wars wallet in his lap, and sat back, breathing heavily and rubbing at his wounds. 

“Thanks—where’d you get this?”

“Miranda gave it to me this morning,” he said with a weak smile.

Darren hugged him and said that if he ever needed anything, they were only a phone call away. 

Peter said, “I might be seeing you soon,” as he ran his hand through Stiles’s hair.

Scott and Liam looked mildly disturbed and Stiles remembered they hadn’t seen the born ’wolves do that very often. 

Stiles laughed at the looks on their faces and glanced around the table. 

Kira was cheerfully telling Cora about Stiles’s Snapchat adventures, Darrel and Liam were talking about visiting each other, and Jackson and Dean were, of all things, complaining about designer jeans and having to take them to tailors. 

“Sounds like Jackson found a shopping buddy,” Erica said nastily. None of them were overly fond of Jackson, after he was heard being rude to Stiles. She fell on Stiles in a breath-taking hug. “Be good,” she instructed.

Boyd smiled at him as he followed Erica out of the room. They sounded like they were arguing about Boyd’s job on the fields. Possibly his garden. 

Stiles hadn’t realized he was shaking until he tried to get a drink of his orange juice and slopped it onto his eggs.

Scott handed him a napkin, and Nathan grasped his shoulder.

 

Stiles didn’t want to handle leaving. He wanted to mentally check out through tears and hugs and packing up the rental cars Chris and Nathan had picked up.

But he couldn’t. He had to suffer through it when Darrel’s eyes teared up, through Laura’s fists clenching in the back of his t-shirt when she hugged him and smiling cheerfully to help calm Darrel down.

He had to grin at Dean’s mock-horror at his outfit and pretend he didn’t notice the way his left eye ticked the way it did when he was hiding something. 

“We’ll visit,” Scott said once the rest of the pack was crammed into one or the other of the SUVs. “And you guys should visit us. Beacon Hills isn’t as bad as it used to be.”

Laura rolled her eyes and tackled him, making him squawk indignantly. “Take care of your emissary.” 

“Plan to,” Scott laughed, easily holding her off her feet. “You know, my girlfriend is in the car…”

Laura scoffed and rubbed her knuckles over his head. 

Talia and Darren gave Stiles one last hug, squishing him between them. Darren’s was a bit awkward, as he was using one of Stiles’s old crutches. 

“Sorry you’re all hurt,” he mumbled into Darren’s shoulder.

“We’re healing,” he said, resting his chin on Stiles’s head for a moment. “Hey, let your dad know that Talia would kick his ass at poker,” he muttered out of the side of his mouth. “Don’t let him play.” 

“I heard that,” Talia said. “And I resent it. The man is _law enforcement._ ” 

Stiles nodded gravely until she continued, “If you think he can’t bluff with a steady heartbeat, you’re _wrong_.”

Stiles groaned and laughed. “Thank you guys for everything,” he said quietly. “All of you.”

“Of course,” Talia said softly.

“We love you,” Darren added simply.

The tears spilled over finally. He couldn’t choke out a response, but Talia kissed his forehead as if she’d heard him anyway.

“Have a good trip,” Talia said, pulling away. “Call us when you get home. Cora will want you to Skype right away. Don’t listen to her. Just get some rest first.” She tugged Darren back, too.

“I will. I’ll call as soon as I get home.”

“Good. Tell your dad poker is happening,” she added with a wink. 

Stiles laughed and stepped back, toward Scott. 

He sat in the back with Nathan and Liam; Kira and Scott were in the front. The other five were in the second car.

Stiles watched the Hales the whole way out of the driveway. They waved and watched, too, until Stiles couldn’t see them anymore.

Liam climbed into the cargo area and stretched out.

Stiles put his face against Nathan’s shoulder, trembling.

 

 

47 hours and two 6-hour stops later, they were back in Beacon Hills. Scott, Kira, and Liam were sleeping in the backseat while Nathan drove. 

“We’re just going to our place. You and Scott can go to your apartment later,” Nathan said quietly.

Stiles wasn’t sure he ever wanted to leave home again, even for his and Scott’s apartment across town. He nodded and remained quiet.

He teared up when he saw the house, which was dumb. He was happy to be home. 

They pulled into the driveway.

“I can’t believe how much I keep crying,” Stiles muttered, wiping his eyes. 

“You’ve been through a lot,” Nathan said easily. “You also haven’t slept since we left.”

“True.”

Since most of the luggage was Stiles’s stuff—the things they’d brought for him, and the stuff he’d accumulated from the Hales—he tried to get it by himself, but Scott woke up and helped him.

Lydia pulled in behind them.

“Dropped the Argents off at their house,” she said, getting out of the car.

“Thanks. Jackson, can you get Liam? He’s knocked out,” Scott said, lifting three of the bigger bags.

Kira yawned and jumped out of the SUV, stretching. 

Jackson reached into the backseat and grabbed Liam, rolling his eyes and shifting him over onto his back.

“Just put him in the guest room,” Nathan said. “Thanks, Jackson.” 

Jackson nodded, but he looked like he was smiling a little.

Stiles gave his father a surprised look, but Nathan shrugged. 

“Who all’s staying here?” he asked, hands on his hips. “Liam, Stiles, Scott…?”

“Me,” Kira said, claiming the recliner and falling asleep instantly. 

“I’ll get her a blanket,” Scott said, setting the last bag on an end table.

“We’re going to my house,” Lydia said. “We’ll drop the rental off in the morning.”

“Thanks. Danny?” Nathan asked.

“Mind if I stay over?” He yawned, already stretching out on the couch.

Stiles smiled to himself. Maybe the McCall pack didn’t live together, on top of each other, maybe they were mismatched, but they knew they were welcome with each other. 

“Go ahead. Scott, grab some more blankets.”

“Got ’em,” he said, coming down the stairs. “My mom’s working overnight at the hospital.” 

Everyone found a place to sleep, Lydia and Jackson left. Nathan gave Scott and Stiles a hug and went up to his room. Scott let Stiles use his phone to call Talia, tell her he’d made it home okay. It was a short call, because Talia didn’t want to let the kids know he was on the phone.

 

Stiles’s room was a bit dusty, but the bed was soft and just big enough to fit Scott and Stiles together.

He was happy to be at home. He missed the Hales. He ached the way he’d ached for his own pack. He was _pissed_ at Derek. 

He was feeling so much that all his exhausted brain could do was fall asleep.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, everyone! Here's the ending! I'm working on some other sterek fics but they'll be on hold during NaNoWriMo! Add me as a writing buddy [here](http://nanowrimo.org/participants/gia330) or on tumblr [here](http://outtoshatter.tumblr.com/) if you're interested! :D 
> 
> Anyway, I'm so thankful to everyone who commented and enjoyed it! :*

**3 months later/December**

Stiles got back to his life. He bought a new cellphone and took a job in the city for a witch who was too old to take odd jobs _and_ run her occult bookshop. The bookshop was a front, for the most part. Eden helped supernatural people with all sorts of things, and they paid well for it. She also sold weird books to humans, and specialty items to supernatural people. 

Stiles had picked up the field work for her. He’d been recommended to her by Miranda Landau. 

“I’m on my way back from Mira’s place now. Got her daughter’s, uh, feather problem all fixed,” he babbled into his phone as he drove.

“Are you done with work for the day?” Scott asked, his voice trembling with excitement. “Are you coming back home right now?” 

“I should probably stop by Eden’s, see if anyone needs anything else.”

“You have to come back. Ask Eden for a couple hours or—just call her on your way here.” He almost sounded as wheezy-excited as he did as when he was asthmatic and human. 

“Scott, what’s going on? You’re freaking me out.” 

“Just get home!” Scott laughed, hanging up.

Stiles let his phone disconnect. 

When everything had gotten settled, he’d gone car shopping. He was now paying off a slightly used, violently purple Jeep, a slightly newer model than his old one.

It had been a bit of a shock to discover that the idea of driving made him…anxious. It had taken him a month to stop freaking out whenever he heard a car horn.

He still flinched at the sound, but he wasn’t so bad anymore. Now he paused at red light and tapped the number for Eden’s store.

“Magick Three, _this is Eden speaking._ ” 

“Hi, Ed, it’s Stiles. I finished with Mira, just wanted to check in.”

 _“Oh, that’s wonderful. She was so worried she’d have to keep Paulette home from school._ ” 

“All sorted,” he said cheerfully. “Listen, Scott—my Alpha—he needs me to get back home ASAP. I’m not sure what it’s about, but if you’re okay with it, I’d be really quick.”

Eden laughed. “ _You’re done for the day. Scott called me already. Go on home. See you Monday!_ ” The call disconnected. 

Stiles frowned, hands clenching on the wheel. 

What was so important that Scott had already called his job? He hadn’t sounded scared or upset. Excited?

Stiles’s heart raced, a grin stretching over his face.

He had an idea, but he didn’t want to get his hopes up.

He Skyped and called with all of the Hales except Derek…obviously. 

None of the other Hales mentioned him, and Stiles had been too scared to ask, too hurt. He had a vague memory of a drunk Skype session with Cora, asking about Derek, but he couldn’t remember what she’d said.

Scott and Liam met him at the edge of town, racing beside the car. They were mostly hidden by the trees in case anyone else drove by, but they let Stiles catch glimpses of them. They were grinning wide enough to split their faces. 

Almost to the center of the town, Liam dropped to all fours, bolting into the woods. Stiles slowed so Scott could jump in, his arms full of Liam’s clothes.

“Just go where I tell you,” Scott said before Stiles could ask.

They’d been making a point of getting at least _most_ of the pack together once or twice a week, even when there was no threat. It had been a good change, and Stiles found that it made him happier, less prone to moping about the Hales.

The pack was closer now, and happier, too, Stiles thought. Plus, they were fighting better together when there _were_ threats.

“Where are you taking me?” Stiles demanded as they turned into… “The preserve? Really?” A glance in his rearview mirror had him snorting. “Danny, too? Are you gonna sacrifice the non-wolfy pack members and have a bonfire?” 

“Gross, Stiles,” Scott admonished. “Just keep going.”

They drove until they came to a cracked, paved driveway, covered in leaves and grass pushing through the cement.

There was a house at the end of it, clearly falling into disrepair.

“Uh…okay…” Stiles frowned at Scott. “Are you and Kira gonna move in together? This is kind of…” He looked at the house, then at Scott’s excited face. “A project,” he finished.

“No, you idiot. Get out of the car.”

He got out. Behind Danny’s car was Kira, Lydia, and Allison, and Liam came tumbling out of the brush with a yip. Scott brought him his clothes as he shifted back.

“Scott, what’s going on?” Kira asked, frowning as she rounded the cars. “What’s this house?”

“Old Hale house,” Danny answered, a broad grin stretching over his face.

Stiles, his heart in his throat, whipped around to look at the house again.

Cora Hale came flying out the front door, down the dilapidated steps and barreled into Stiles. She practically climbed him, wrapping her arms tight around his neck.

“I missed you!” she shouted in his ear, but he was too busy shouting back to wince.

He squeezed her tight until she wheezed and smacked his shoulder. 

Boyd and Erica came out next. Erica’s hair was up, her t-shirt smudged with mud and dirt. They pounced on Stiles just as enthusiastically as Cora.

Peter came out while they were chattering incomprehensibly over each other. His face was mostly healed—his scars were thin and keloid, but closed. He hugged Stiles, too, rubbing his hand over his hair.

Stiles laughed and felt a bit like crying, he was so happy. “What are you guys doing here?” he choked.

“We live here now.”

He looked up sharply. “Isaac? But aren’t you-”

“We’re Derek’s pack away from pack,” Erica said brightly.

Derek came out behind Isaac.

He was bigger—the Alpha powers had bulked him up. He was carrying himself a little differently, too—more confidently. 

“Hi, everyone,” he said with a grin. 

Stiles gaped wordlessly. He wanted to yell at Derek and hug him and ask _Are you staying_ , but what he actually said was, “I love you.”

“I’m not supposed to be Alpha,” Derek said at the same time. 

Danny grinned at him. “You’ll get a handle on it. You’ve learned a lot.” 

Derek nodded. “I have. I’m not supposed to be, but I think I’m doing a good job.” He grinned wolfishly.

Irritated, a little hurt, Stiles said loudly, “ _I love you_.” 

Derek darted forward suddenly, lifting Stiles off his feet and kissing him. “I love you, too,” he panted, smiling as he bumped their noses together. “I’d love to take you inside and show you how much I love you,” he said quietly, “but there are spiders and mice we have to deal with.” He shuddered a bit at the mention of spiders, which Stiles refused to find endearing.

“And birds in the attic,” Erica added cheerfully. “Everyone get a pair of gloves. You’re all helping.”

“Helping what?” Kira asked. 

Derek looked at Stiles, who he was still holding. “We’re cleaning up the house. We’re moving in, and we’ve got a pest problem.” 

Stiles laughed and wrapped his arms around Derek’s neck, pressing kisses over his cheek and jaw. Then he wiggled free and punched his (rock hard, _ow_ ) shoulder. “You jerk!”

“Here we go,” Erica said gleefully.

“Okay, let’s go get those gloves and scrub brushes!” Scott said, and herded the packs into the house.

“What, as _Alpha_ you can’t pick up a phone? Or a _pen_? Cora sent me a card on Halloween, she had my address. And _you are next, Cora Hale!_ ” he shouted.

Derek held his hands up, backing up a step.

“I was bonding with my pack,” Derek said firmly. “I wanted to call but Alpha Ito said it was best to wait until I was accustomed to being Alpha.” 

Stiles made some wild gesture toward the house. “And why are _all_ of them here?”

“Boyd and Erica came and found me, submitted.” He shrugged. “Boyd wanted to travel, get out of Sunset. Erica thought he was coming just because he felt like I needed someone, and that he was abandoning his job. They argued about it for a while, but he convinced her he wanted to come. She wanted to come in the first place, but she wasn’t going to leave him.” He took in a breath and looked over his shoulder. “Then a couple weeks later, Cora and Peter came. It took longer to get used to than we thought since they were slow trickling in. I had to get…used to having a whole pack.” 

“I _just_ talked to Cora three days ago!” Stiles snapped, hands going to his hips. “Why didn’t she say _anything?_ ” 

Derek smiled. “That was because we wanted to surprise you. She called Scott this morning to make sure we were welcome, explained where we planned to live.”

Stiles sighed. “I missed you. Y’know, all of you. Mostly you.” 

“I missed you, too. I was a little worried you’d be so mad at me that you wouldn’t want to see me,” Derek admitted. 

“I am mad at you,” Stiles insisted. “I _am_.” 

“Uh-uh. You _love_ me,” he laughed.

Stiles grabbed his ears and tugged him forward for a kiss. “Yeah, so? What are you gonna do about it?”

“I was gonna say dinner and a movie, but Erica wants the house clean by tonight, so how about pizza and dust bunnies?”

Stiles bumped their noses together lightly. “Sounds great.”


End file.
